


The Rules For Lovers

by ADreamingSongbird



Series: if we want to, we could do what kings do [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, F/F, Gen, Heavy Angst, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, Political Intrigue, Slow Burn, based on modern world but with fictional history and with magic, casually adds every "katsuki yuuri & someone" tag ever, dark themes, im always a slut for brotps, magic + technology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-23 06:50:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 323,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9645131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ADreamingSongbird/pseuds/ADreamingSongbird
Summary: Prince Yuuri Katsuki has a duty to his country, above all else (his desires, his dreams, and his happiness included), and he knows this alliance will help to ensure the safety of his people.  That’s the only reason he accepts Prince Nikiforov’s hand in marriage.  The pleasant surprise, of course, is the part where they fall in love along the way.  The unpleasant one, well…That’s a long story.





	1. the beginning of the end

“Phichit.”

The tired sigh draws his attention to the doorway.  He’s known Yuuri was standing there, of course—some assassin-in-training he’d be, letting a princeling sneak up on him!—but didn’t bother to acknowledge him until now.  Waiting for him to make the first move.

Phichit lifts a hand from the warm water of this lovely pool, water redirected from the main hot spring to a private bath for Prince Katsuki, and waves cordially. “Hey!”

Yuuri sighs.  “You can’t just use the door like a regular person?”

He’s not actually mad.  He just sounds exhausted.  Phichit lets playful indignance seep into his voice.  “Yuuri!” he gasps, affronted.  “I’ll have you know that sneaking in through your window is great practice!”

Yuuri shakes his head.  “One of these days,” he says, wrinkling his nose, “someone will actually catch you, and you’ll be in _trouble_.  All because you can’t bother yourself to knock.”

“Alright,” Phichit says patiently, “but if I’d knocked, I wouldn’t have gotten a response, because you were in that meeting with Mari until just now.  And I _needed_ a hot bath!  Those exercises they have me doing are cool and I know how to kill a man in under thirty seconds in four different ways with my bare hands, but they make me so _sore,_ you know?”

Yuuri raises a finger in contradiction and opens his mouth, thinks better of what he was about to say, and closes it again.  Phichit grins triumphantly.

“There are other places to soak in the springwater than my chambers,” Yuuri finally says.  He sighs again and finally leaves the doorframe, stepping forward into the moonlight so he is no longer backlit by the lamps in his changing room.  When he drops his robe and steps into the water too, Phichit lightly flicks a few drops at him.

“There _are,_ but I wouldn’t find my best friend at those places,” he points out.

“Prepared for every response, aren’t you?” Yuuri asks wryly, flicking water back at him.

“Look, I have to have _something_ to do while I wait on you to get out of intelligence briefings or whatever you were talking about with Mari.  Honestly, it’s way too late to be doing court business, what’s up with that?”

Yuuri sighs, sinking down into the pool until he’s slouching on the carven bench and the water laps at his chin.  He’s silent for several seconds, and the only sound is the gently flowing stream that circulates the springwater out of the pool.  “It’s because it wasn’t _official_ court business,” he finally says, just as Phichit is about to ask if he’s okay.

“It’s still kinda late, even for unofficial court business,” he says instead.  “Wanna talk about it?  … _Can_ you talk about it?”

Yuuri smiles wanly.  “It’s nothing major,” he says.  “I just get stressed out thinking about all the different ways everything can go wrong, you know?  Politics is so hard, there are a dozen different ways to accidentally offend someone in a single conversation, and when you’re second in line and not the heir, you’re probably the one who will get sent to actually interact with other diplomats more often, which means you have to be _good_ at talking to people, which I’m, uh, _not_ , and the fact that me being too nervous to think clearly could end up in me offending some foreign dignitary and sending us to war or something makes me really anxious, which sucks!  Because it makes me even more nervous about talking to them!”

“So,” Phichit sums up, “you’re nervous about feeling nervous, and that makes you nervous in case you feel nervous about feeling nervous?”

Yuuri groans and nods miserably, closing his eyes.  “Yup.  Pretty much.”

“If it makes you feel better,” offers Phichit, “I don’t think you stammering your way through a conversation would offend anyone enough to declare _war_ on us.”

Yuuri opens his eyes and looks over, something contemplative in his dark eyes.  “Us?” he repeats.

“Us,” Phichit says firmly.  “I love my country, but I love you, too, so I’m sticking by your side.  And that means your kingdom is mine, too.  Is it so weird for a guy to have two places he calls home, Yuuri?”

Yuuri’s smile is even softer when his face is kissed by silvery moonlight.  “No,” he says.  “Not that weird.  You’re a good friend, Phichit.  I’m… I’m glad you’re here.”

Phichit smiles back.  They sit quietly for a just a moment, a heartbeat of silent solidarity and _trust me, I trust you—I’m here, and I always will be, until you don’t need me to—_ before Phichit decides he really should go and ruin it right about now.

“Wow, Yuuri, you’ve gotta be really tired,” he says glibly.  “You’re getting sappy on me.  I can’t exactly go back to Xian right now, you know?  I don’t think my uncle would take that very well.  I sure do hope you’re glad I’m here!”

Yuuri splashes him.  “This is what I get for being sappy,” he complains, and Phichit laughs.  “I’m sure your uncle will change his mind soon, too.  I bet he misses you.”

Phichit thinks of the last email he got from home and personally isn’t that sure, but shrugs anyway.  After all, that email was a long time ago.  Who knows, maybe his aunt and uncle _have_ calmed down by now!  They’ll probably forgive him for running away, eventually.  Someday.  At least they weren’t mad enough to force him to come back… though that was probably because they knew he’d just bolt again… ugh, this is pointless.  It’s done and over, so there’s no need to dwell on it again!

“Maybe,” he says.  “I kinda try not to worry about it too much, you know?  I’m going to go back one day, but not yet.  I’m not gonna think about it too hard in the meantime.”

“Alright,” Yuuri says.  He doesn’t look entirely satisfied, but he doesn’t push either, so that’s okay.  Phichit knows Yuuri deals with problems differently, anyway.  He prefers to bottle everything up and then let it all out at once, to lay everything on the table and think about it and bare his heart completely—with Yuuri, it’s kind of all or nothing.  Phichit deals with things differently, in really small steps, here and there. 

“Sorry,” Yuuri adds, and Phichit blinks.  “For bringing it up.  I know you don’t like to talk about that.”

Phichit shrugs.  “It’s okay,” he says.  “I brought it up, too.  And it’s also okay in a different way.  Because, y’know, with you, I don’t really mind.”

Yuuri smiles again.  “I’m glad,” he says.

Then he splashes Phichit again, and Phichit squawks.  Oh, it’s _on!_

* * *

_Three years later…_

“You’re getting very good at this,” Minako says approvingly, and Yuuri glows with the praise.  Almost literally, too—emotional magic is hard to hide, and sometimes physical manifestations become visible.

“Thank you,” he says, smiling bashfully.  “You’re a good teacher.”

Minako tosses her head and laughs, dark hair cascading over her shoulders.  “You little charmer, were you even trying that time?”

“No,” Yuuri says.  “I was being genuine, actually.”

She blinks.  Then she grins.  “Ah.  Well, in that case, I know that, kid!  But I’m glad you can see it, too.”

When she ruffles his hair like he’s a toddler, he ducks his head, but he’s laughing and he knows that she knows he doesn’t actually mind it.  “Is that all for today’s lesson?”

“I want you to try the last exercise again, just one more time,” Minako says, settling comfortably back into her chair.  “I’m thinking about something.  Tell me what emotions you feel me projecting.”

Projecting?  But if she’s just thinking about it, that’s not a projection, is it?  A projection is more along the lines of emotions that are _intended_ to be felt…

“Is that a trick question?” he blurts.  “In the other exercise, you said you were thinking about something and asked me to tell you what it made you feel.”

Minako _beams._

“I was hoping you would catch that!” she exclaims, clapping her hands together twice.  “Good.  As for your question, I want you to focus and tell me what I feel.  Not what I project.  Got it, squirt?”

Yuuri nods, determined.  Empathic magic has always come to him most easily out of all the schools out there, though he’s always loved elemental.  He’s been training with Minako for years now, both in empathic magic and in dance, which is her other passion in life other than magic.

…Enough years that he doesn’t really object to her calling him “squirt”.  It’s been a long time since he’s bothered complaining about the nicknames.

“Alright,” Minako says.  “I’m ready.  Tell me what I’m feeling, Yuuri.  And for an added bonus, keep your eyes open this time.  I want you to be able to do this without people knowing you’re looking over their projections.”

 _Isn’t that kind of dishonest and invasive?_   He doesn’t ask that question.  Yes, it is dishonest and invasive.  But he’s a prince.  He has to use everything he’s got to serve his kingdom.

Keeping his eyes open, he retreats into his own mind, staring at a fixed point over Minako’s shoulder.  He can’t quite do this yet without looking like he’s just really spaced out, because it takes a lot of concentration, and he already knows it’ll take a lot of practice until he’s good at doing it undetected, but he’s willing to do what he has to for his people.

This is _so_ much easier if he closes his eyes.  He carefully extends his magical senses, as if he’s reaching out toward Minako, but without actually moving, and from that he can already feel the emotions she’s projecting for him to read, like a cloak disguising her actual feelings.  It’s a very well made cloak, too, and if he didn’t know what signs to look for, he would think those _are_ the feelings, but training under her rigorous hand has taught him well.  He probes the edges, then slips between the cracks when he finds them.

The projected feelings were nondescript—bland indifference, mild amusement, warmth.  The memory-related feelings are… different.

He takes a deep breath, withdrawing his magical senses, and looks Minako in the eye.  “You were feeling proud,” he says.

“I was,” Minako agrees.  There’s a hint of that pride in her voice now, too, and Yuuri barely knows what to say to that.

“Why?”

A fond smile plays about her lips.  “I was thinking about how far you’ve come from the little kid who barely knew what magic was, let alone how to use it.  You’re getting good at this.  I mean it, Yuuri.”

“Ah,” he says, bashful and blushing again. “Thank you.”

“Anyway!” Minako says breezily, hopping to her feet.  “Magic lessons are over for today.  You’re coming to dance lessons this evening, but until then you have the afternoon to yourself.  Go play on that phone but don’t forget—”

“—to meet with Mari again, I know,” Yuuri assures her.  “I was going to do that over lunch, so right now, actually.”

“Oh, good,” Minako nods.  “Run along then, we both know your sister is one busy woman!”

Yuuri nods, standing as well.  He could use lunch—using magic for extended periods of time always makes him hungry and tired, when it doesn’t leave his brain feeling fuzzy.  It’s kind of hit and miss like that.  “I’ll see you this evening,” he says as he steps to the door, pausing to wave once before he heads down the hallway.  Phichit melts out of one of the shadows behind a nearby pillar and falls into step just behind him.

“Hey,” he greets.

“Hi, Phichit,” Yuuri says.  “I’m going to lunch with Mari.  Are you sitting in with us?”

“Are you discussing things I’m allowed to sit in on?” Phichit asks.  Yuuri frowns in thought.

“You know,” he says, “I’m not actually that sure.  I can ask her when we get there.”

As it turns out, Mari is waiting outside with a picnic basket.  “I already got food from the kitchens,” she says as soon as she sees Yuuri step outside into the sunlight.  “Texted Mom and Dad about taking the afternoon off, too.  Anyway, let’s go sit in the gazebo, what do you say?”

“Sounds good to me,” Yuuri says.  “Can Phichit come?”

Mari casts Phichit an amused glance.  “As if you’d leave him if I said no.”

Phichit doesn’t even have the shame to look abashed.  He just shrugs and grins.  “Guilty as charged!”

“It’s not top-secret state business, anyway,” Mari shrugs.  Then she pauses.  “Well… it kind of is.  Keep it quiet, at least.  Nothing is set in stone yet, so we don’t want word getting out.  But I know both of you are pretty good about that anyway.”

They end up having a simple picnic lunch at the gazebo in the central garden.  Mari pulls out three bowls and three sets of chopsticks, and Phichit laughs because she already assumed he’d tag along.  Yuuri snorts.  At least they’re consistent.

“So,” Mari finally says.  “Mom and Dad were talking to the diplomat from Ruthenia yesterday.  You know, the one who they sent to talk trade deals.”

Yuuri nods.  He knows they were having that talk.  He doesn’t know _what_ the talk was about, because apparently it was secret enough that the diplomat wanted to talk to the king and queen only, but he knows Mari knows because it’s a little-known fact that Mari is actually the head of Hinomoto’s intelligence.

“Wait,” Phichit says. “Wasn’t that literally top-secret state business?”

Mari rolls her eyes.  “Technically, yes,” she says, “but I think Yuuri needs to know now, before he’s officially told, and I know he’d tell you anyway.  As if you wouldn’t be listening in from his shadow or whatever.”

“I don’t hide in people’s shadows,” Phichit protests.  “That’s not how shade enchantments _work_ , Your Highness!”

“What do I need to know?” Yuuri interrupts, before the two of them can start needling each other about Phichit’s admittedly kind of nosy tendencies.

Mari squares her shoulders slightly.  “Look,” she says, and Yuuri is more than a little surprised when she reaches over and takes his hand, resting their joined fingers in his lap.  “I want you to know that you can say no to this.  Okay?  If you don’t want to do it, I’ll help you get out of it. I don’t want you to feel trapped.  And it’s only an option on the table, it might not actually happen, either, so please don’t, like, freak out.  But…”

“But?” he prods, eyes wide as dread and anxiety already start pooling in his chest, squeezing at his heart with a vicelike, icy grip.  She can’t stop _there_ , not when he’s under this much suspense!

“There was talk about an arranged marriage to seal the alliance,” Mari says, squeezing Yuuri’s hand.  “Between the crown prince of Ruthenia, and you.”

Yuuri’s world lurches dangerously.

“ _What?_ ”

“You don’t have to do it!” Mari bursts out, grabbing his other hand and squeezing it too.  “You don’t have to do it.  They didn’t even come to a decision about whether they wanted to keep that option on the table last night.  I just—I wanted to tell you so that you don’t go into anything blind, when talks with Ruthenia come up.  Mom said she would only consider it after meeting Prince Nikiforov in person.”

Arranged marriage.

Yuuri has always known that it would be a possibility, in theory, but it never seemed _real_ until now—not just the thought of having to spend his life with a stranger, working on national interests and whatnot, but…

Prince Nikiforov is Ruthenia’s _crown prince._ Yuuri is just the second prince of Hinomoto.  Crown princes outrank second princes.  Yuuri’s presence at the Hinomoto Royal Castle is not necessary.  Prince Nikiforov’s presence at Ruthenia’s Palace is.

If Yuuri has to marry Prince Nikiforov, he’ll have to leave Hinomoto, and everyone and everything he knows and loves, behind.  Not only that, but he’ll be leaving them for _Viktor Nikiforov_ , the so-called “Prince of Ice”, rumored to be cold and aloof and ruthlessly cunning.  He has never met Prince Nikiforov, but he might have to agree to spend his life with the man, and all he can think of is how it will be frigid.

The thought terrifies him.

“Yuuri?” Mari interrupts his frantic thoughts.  “Yuuri, breathe.  You’re shaking.  Yuuri, look at me—hey.  Little bro.  _Look at me._   Nobody will force you into anything.  Our parents would never do that to you, and I would never let that happen.  Okay?  Nothing will happen that you don’t want.”

“I d-don’t want this,” Yuuri stammers, blinking back tears.  He _is_ shaking, he realizes—that would be the anxiety, roiling in his belly like a snake trying to slough off its skin.  “Wh-when are they going to—were they going to _tell_ me?  I—I don’t want this, _I don’t want it—_ ”

“I think they were going to tell you tonight,” Mari says.  Phichit places a soothing hand on Yuuri’s shoulder, and the touch helps ground him, just like Mari’s firm grip on his hands.  “I thought you might need forewarning, that’s why I wanted us to have a private lunch today.”

“Thanks,” Yuuri whispers, staring at his barely-touched food.  He doesn’t feel hungry anymore.  Mari says she won’t let him get packed off to Ruthenia, but they _need_ this alliance, ever since Xian and Koguryŏ signed their mutual nonaggression pact last year, so… if he’s given the choice, wouldn’t it be incredibly selfish to turn it down just because he’s terrified of having to leave Hinomoto to live with a man he’s never met?

Mari’s thumbs stroke his knuckles.  “Don’t look so scared,” she says again.  “I promise, nothing will happen that you don’t want.”

That’s the thing.  He _has_ to want this.  Their people will be in danger, otherwise, because without Ruthenia’s pledge of alliance, Hinomoto could risk a two-front war, should conflict break out with Koguryŏ.  After all, Ruthenia could side with Koguryŏ in that case.  It’s a matter of making working _with_ Hinomoto worth more to Ruthenia than working against them with Koguryŏ.  Part of that is playing up the suspicion that Koguryŏ wouldn’t be reasonable with treaty terms, should they win a war with Hinomoto, and would want more of the spoils than a fair share.  If Ruthenia suspects Koguryŏ won’t compensate them for an alliance, they’re less likely to go for it.

But unfortunately, there’s more than just one part of this problem, and another facet is convincing Ruthenia that Hinomoto _is_ truthful and loyal as a partner and ally.  And what would be a better token of esteem than sending the second child of the royal family to Ruthenia?

If the marriage is on the table, Yuuri has to take it.  He owes it to his people.  He owes it to his family.  He has to do it.

“You still look terrified,” Mari mutters.  “Yuuri.  Even if it gets brought up tonight, nothing will be decided until you meet Prince Nikiforov, at least.  And until I meet him.  My little brother isn’t going to marry an asshole if I have anything to say about it.”

“Add me to the list of people whose tests he has to pass,” Phichit says.  He squeezes Yuuri’s shoulder.  “If he’s not good enough for you, we’ll get the whole affair called off.  It’ll be fine, Yuuri!”

Mari knows.  She’s smart and she’s crown princess of Hinomoto.  There’s no way she doesn’t know Yuuri has to do it.  It doesn’t matter if Prince Nikiforov turns out to be absolutely awful, even though he seems quite handsome from the pictures on the internet and from what Yuuri knows of him.  There are things bigger than Yuuri at work here, forces in motion that don’t care about his feelings or his happiness.

Mari knows.  He has a duty to his people and she knows that.  And he knows that she knows that.  So why is she still saying all this?

“We need that alliance,” he says softly.  “You know it as well as I do.”

Mari freezes, then presses her lips together firmly.  “We do,” she agrees.  “But I’m still going to look out for my baby brother anyway.”

That night, the plan is suggested for his consideration, and Yuuri, his heart sinking like a stone, accepts the terms.  He will meet Prince Nikiforov, and he already knows that no matter how that meeting goes, he will accept his hand in marriage.

It’s his duty.

Alone in his bedroom, Yuuri bows his head and cries.

* * *

_Ruthenia, a few days later._

“Viktor!  _Viktor!_   Goddammit, don’t walk away from me, you _asshole_ —”

Viktor turns on his heel, frosty-perfect smile in place as he yanks his sleeve out of his cousin’s grip with the ease of practice.  “Why, Yura, my little cousin!  I almost didn’t see you down there!”

Yuri scowls darkly, which is almost an impressive feat, considering how angelic his little face looks.  Ah, but perhaps he should stop coddling and teasing the boy; it makes him mad, which is frankly pretty funny, but Yakov is always saying he ought to have a better relationship with his heir.

“Short jokes?  Really, Nikiforov?”  Yuri looks disgusted and disgruntled.  “That’s a whole new low on your maturity!”

Viktor raises one pale eyebrow just so, letting his razor-sharp cheerful smile curve into the aloof, smug one that always drives Yuri up the wall.  “Well, what can I say?  I was attempting to get on your level.”

Yuri actually steps back, just a little, his fists clenched at his sides.  “Forget this,” he mutters.  “I hate you.  I don’t know why I bothered trying to _talk_ to you.  Fucking prick.”

“Ah, language, Yura,” Viktor corrects.  “You know Yakov would have your head if he heard you talking like that, and to me, no less!”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about what Yakov thinks I should act like, and I _definitely_ don’t care what _you_ think,” Yuri spits, every word dripping with venom.

Viktor affects a look of mild curiosity, keeping that lilt in his voice that suggests this is below him but he’s going to indulge Yuri anyway.  “Oh?  Then why did you chase me down in a corridor when I have places to be soon, hmm?”

He can _see_ how close Yuri comes to kicking him.  It almost makes him laugh.  Then he feels a little bad for being so amused by riling Yuri up and softens, because he doesn’t actually hate his little cousin and he knows Yuri doesn’t hate him either, it’s just…

Complicated. 

As most things are, when you’re next in line for a throne.

“I’m sorry, Yura,” he sighs, dropping the façade and running a hand through his hair distractedly.  “What did you need?”

A small portion of the rage thrumming in Yuri’s frame dissipates.  He huffs, crosses his arms, and blows blond hair out of his face.  “When are you leaving for Hinomoto?”

“This evening.  I was on my way to finish packing now,” Viktor answers.  “Why?”

Yuri scoffs.  “You’re leaving tonight and you haven’t finished packing yet?  Idiot.”

Viktor snorts.  “What,” he says dryly, “did you want to come with me or something?”

“No!”  Yuri looks repulsed at the thought.  “You can go try and seduce that dumbass Prince Katsuki—have you even seen his Wikipedia page?  He looks so _boring!_ —and get that stupid alliance sealed already on your own.  Besides, even if I did want to go, you and I legally can’t travel together.”

“Who said anything about legally?” Viktor asks, slipping back into teasing just for a moment.  “I could just fold you up and fit you in my suitcase!  Simple as that, Yura, you could come get away on vacation for a while!”

“I don’t want a vacation, and you’re awful and I hate you,” Yuri informs him, scowling again.  “And you’re not going on vacation, either.  You’re only going to seal the agreement and meet Katsuki.”

“Well, yes, I suppose,” Viktor shrugs loftily.  _Details, details._   “But it’s more fun to call it a vacation, don’t you think?”

“I think you’re an idiot,” Yuri informs him with a sniff.  “Anyway, I’m only talking to you right now because I wanted to find out when you’re leaving.  And when are you coming back, anyway?”

“It almost sounds like you’re going to miss me,” Viktor teases.  “I’ll be back in two weeks.  Think you can manage without me for that long?”

“It’ll be two whole weeks of peace and quiet without some stupid old man acting like he’s so great and being annoying as hell,” Yuri bites back.  “I can’t wait until you fly out!  And you’re even taking your stupid yappy dog, I’m so excited.”

“Don’t insult Makkachin in your quest to remind me of my shortcomings,” Viktor says mildly.  “He never did anything to you.  He likes you, you know.”

Yuri snorts.  “Whatever.  Why are you even going for that long, anyway?  You’ve considered some marriage candidates before, but you never visited _them_ for two whole weeks.”

“The Katsuki family insists,” Viktor shrugs.  “They do seem rather protective of the prince.  He’s their youngest child, you know.”

The incredulous laugh that Yuri lets out would sound more appropriate coming from a jaded, bitter old man.  “He’s twenty-three,” he says scathingly.  “I’m _sixteen_ and more ready to handle _anything_ than he is, if his family keeps coddling him.  Youngest child, _hah_.”

“Yes, but nobody is asking you to move across the world to marry someone you’ve never met in person,” Viktor says.  Honestly, he thinks the Katsuki family _is_ being a little overbearing, but a two-week absence from the Crown Prince of Ruthenia is only a minor inconvenience that stands to bring about a major benefit in the form of an alliance with Hinomoto.  The island nation is small, but their military is a forced to be reckoned with, and their industrial production is phenomenal. 

“Yeah, and _good_ ,” Yuri says.  “I’m not going to marry.”

 _Naïve, naïve little Yura.  Still thinks he’s going to have full control over his life._ Viktor just smiles the vapid, indulgent smile and nods.  “Of course, Yura,” he says. “I know nobody can make you do something you don’t feel like doing.”

“Yeah,” Yuri agrees.  “And don’t you forget that.  Asshole.”

Yuri punches his arm, but not that hard, and for just a fleeting moment, Viktor thinks it feels like it used to, when it was just the two of them, lying on their backs in the grass and watching clouds drift by, carefree without feeling the weight of the world.  But then the moment passes, and they’re in a cold, stone hallway, and Yuri isn’t smiling at him anymore.

“I won’t forget,” Viktor says, and turns away again.  He pauses, looking back over his shoulder, and adds, “I’ll see you in two weeks. Yura.  Be responsible while I’m gone.”

He doesn’t bother waiting for a reply before he strides away.

* * *

* * *

The sun is shining.  It’s a lovely spring day, and in the gardens of Hasetsu Castle, Yuuri lies on his back in the grass, his eyes closed and his face turned up to the warmth.  The weather is beautiful.

It’s too nice.  On any other day, he would love this weather.  But it feels too good for today.

He shifts slightly, drumming his fingers on his chest.  Lying here in the sunlight feels nice too, but it’s not right, because today should not be a good day.  Normally, meditating in the gardens and drowning himself in the tranquility that his magic senses out here, that helps clear his head, but today… today his anxiety keeps bubbling up and nothing he does seems to calm it down.

Today’s the day.

Today he’ll meet Crown Prince Viktor Nikiforov.  Heir to the throne.  Ruthenia’s Ice Prince.  The man he could end up marrying.

No.  Not “could”.  “Will”.  He has to make a good impression on Prince Nikiforov, so that they both say yes to the arrangement, so that Hinomoto can be protected, so that in the event of war breaking out, his people will not be slaughtered on two fronts.  There is no other choice.  He cannot and _will not_ be so selfish as to deny his own people protection, even at the cost of himself.

After all, as the “spare” to Mari’s “heir”, Yuuri knows he’s never been much more than a pawn, in the grand scheme of things.

Anyway, his anxiety has been _awful_ all day, literally since he got out of bed.  Over breakfast, he could hardly choke down his tea, let alone food, and was so terrified and disoriented afterwards that he nearly threw up and ended up locking himself in a closet so nobody would see him hyperventilating and crying into his hands. 

That was where Phichit found him, and it’s only thanks to Phichit that he even remembered that coming outside might help.  They sat together and wove flowers into crowns so Yuuri would have something to do with his hands, and when they finished that they just lay down in the grass, and here they are, and Yuuri wishes the rest of the day would just pass by like this, in the gardens, and Prince Nikiforov would just somehow never come here.

He groans, pressing the heels of his hands into his closed eyes until he sees bursts of color, and then sits up.  Phichit is soaking up the sunshine next to him, eyes closed and flower crown precariously hanging in his hair, just barely.

“Are you _sure_ I won’t be able to come with you?” Phichit asks, not opening his eyes.  He sounds… sad.

Yuuri is sad, too.

“I don’t think so,” he says quietly.  “You know that I can’t just bring a nobleman along, and one who isn’t even from Hinomoto no less.  And if I insist on bringing you as my own personal guard, that could easily be taken as an insult to the Nikiforovs, as if I think their employ wouldn’t be good enough to protect me, or even worse that I don’t _trust_ them.”

“You don’t,” Phichit points out.  But they both know that that doesn’t actually matter.  Yuuri has to _pretend_ that he trusts them.  Everything is a calculated move, an intricate and finely-choreograph of chess pieces upon their checkered board.

Yuuri hates it.

“I think the only way I could justify bringing you would be if you were some kind of personal attendant,” he says, “but I also have a feeling I’ll be told that all personal attendants will be given to me when I get to Ruthenia, same way I’ll have a Ruthenian guard.”

Phichit sighs softly.  “What do I do when you’re gone?” he asks, just a little bit forlorn.  “I’ve been in Hinomoto for this long mostly for you, Yuuri.”

“Well,” Yuuri sighs too, “you always did say you wanted to go back to Xian someday.  Maybe ‘someday’ just came sooner than either of us thought it would.”

“I guess,” Phichit says.  “Five years is a pretty long time to be away from home.”

“Yeah,” Yuuri agrees, feeling numb.  He wonders how long it’ll be until he has to leave Hasetsu, until he starts to forget the scent of the flowers in bloom in springtime and doesn’t remember the exact sound of the water rippling through the hot springs.  Will he ever think of Ruthenia as home?  He doubts it.

“I hate that I can’t even in good conscience try to talk you out of this,” Phichit mutters. “I feel like as your best friend I should really, really want you to be happy, but I just…”

“We need the alliance,” Yuuri says dully.  “So I have to make sure I marry him.  That’s all there is to it.”

“I know,” Phichit says.  He’s silent for a moment.  “…Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

Yuuri huffs out a dry laugh.  “Me neither.”

Phichit is quiet for a moment.  Then he scoots over until he’s lying flush against Yuuri’s side, hooks his ankle around Yuuri’s leg, and digs his phone out of his pocket.  “Well… we can take pictures, today,” he decides.  “And that way, no matter what happens, we can look back on them in the future.  And even when I’m back in Xian and you’re in Ruthenia, you had _better_ keep in touch, you hear me?”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Yuuri promises.  He adjusts the flower crown on his own head, then wraps his arm around Phichit’s shoulders and leans in while Phichit holds his phone up for a selfie, taking several.  A gentle breeze picks up, and Yuuri wants to cry from the wistful ache in the pit of his stomach—he doesn’t _want_ to leave this, he doesn’t want to get married…

And part of him knows he’s being dramatic and making too big of a deal out of today, that even after Prince Nikiforov leaves in two weeks, there will be around a month before Yuuri has to go to Ruthenia, considering how long negotiations to finalize the details of the alliance will take, and then considering the formalities of these things, too.  He has some time left.  It’s just that… with Prince Nikiforov arriving today…

Today feels like the beginning of the end.

“I think this is the best one,” Phichit says, and Yuuri drags himself out of his spiraling thoughts to look at the screen, squinting in the sunlight.

How happy and carefree he looks, holding Phichit and lying in the grass, both of them wearing hand-woven flower crowns and smiling.  They don’t even look sad in the picture.  How odd.

“I like it,” Yuuri says after a moment.  “Are you posting that?”

“Yeah,” Phichit says.  “I’ll tag you.”

“Okay,” Yuuri says.  He turns his head, just slightly, so that he can press his face against Phichit’s shoulder, and feels the flower crown fall from his hair into the grass

* * *

When Yuuri wakes up, the first thing he is aware of is _wet_.

The second thing is that _oh god he fell asleep in the gardens how long was he asleep_ —

The third is that there’s a very fluffy dog licking his face, and that _that’s_ what is wet, and—ack—eugh—

Spluttering, he sits up and gasps, and the dog wags its tail hard enough that its entire body wiggles, and tries to lick him some more.  It seems very excited.

There is dog slobber on his glasses.

“What—” Phichit jolts upright next to him, already on high alert, while Yuuri loudly protests the dog as it walks across his legs and stands across his lap.

“We fell asleep,” Yuuri says to Phichit, terror punching him in the gut.  Suddenly the dog is a lot less amusing, and he kind of wants to lie back down and let the ground swallow him, because _they fell asleep_ , and—and what time is it?

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and stares at it, his heart sinking down to the pits of hell.  Seven missed calls, twenty-two messages, and over half an hour past the time he was supposed to be waiting with his family to meet Prince Nikiforov.

“Shit,” Phichit mutters.  The dog whines, clearly wanting attention, and feeling numb all over again, Yuuri absently pets its head.  His other hand gropes around in the grass for his flower crown, somewhat crushed and a little wilted but still a tangible reminder of the afternoon he spent with Phichit, and therefore still soothing, until he finds it and deposits it back on his head.

“Phichit, we fell asleep, I missed the meeting time, he probably hates me already, oh _god_ ,” Yuuri moans, burying his face in his hands.  He can see it now—the deal will fall through and Ruthenia will refuse to ally with Hinomoto, all because Yuuri’s idiotic ass fell asleep in the gardens and insulted Prince Nikiforov, and—

“Makkachin!” calls an unfamiliar voice, and the dog perks up.

Yuuri’s heart lurches.

“Makkachin, where did you go?”  The words are accented—with a Ruthenian accent.

The dog— _Makkachin_ —barks.  It licks at Yuuri’s cheek again, and he yelps, while Phichit, the unhelpful friend that he is, snaps a picture before kneeling and trying to pull Makkachin away.

And then someone else strides into the courtyard, and honestly, Yuuri knew who it would be before he even saw the silvery-grey hair and the pale skin and the foreign clothes.

Prince Nikiforov isn’t as devastatingly handsome as the pictures make him out to be.  If it’s possible, he’s actually _more_ attractive. 

Yuuri wants to run away.

“I—I am so sorry,” he stammers, feeling his face heat up like a fire has been lit beneath his skin.  “I should have—I didn’t—I am so sorry!”  There’s no way Prince Nikiforov doesn’t know who he is, after all, and that means Prince Nikiforov must…

…must …be… laughing?

“Oh, god,” he says, hurrying closer. “Did Makkachin do this to you?  I’m terribly sorry.  He’s excited to be on the ground after the flight, that’s all, isn’t that right, Makkachin, you,” and then he breaks off into a train of tender, cooed Ruthenian words that flow smoothly off his tongue as he bodily hugs the dog and pulls it away from Yuuri.

Yuuri stares.

Makkachin licks Prince Nikiforov’s shoulder and _whuffs_ softly, then bumps into him until he falls backward into the grass, too.

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri says again, absurdly, because honestly, even though he’s fucked up enough today already, the one thing that isn’t his fault is probably Nikiforov’s dog pushing him over.  But he seems to have forgotten how to say literally anything other than apologies.

(Thank god for Phichit’s presence, quiet but steady and supportive, behind him.)

Nikiforov laughs.  He laughs, and Yuuri hates that someone who terrifies him like this has such a nice laugh.  If he heard that laugh from anyone else, he’d think that they must be a nice person, really.  But Prince Nikiforov is _intimidating_.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he says.  “Makkachin gets like this when he’s restless.  I’m sorry he got you like that, though!  Prince Katsuki, right?”

He says it so casually, as if there isn’t the weight of the sky attached to the words— _so you’re the man I might marry.  So it’s you I have to be able to spend my life with._   Yuuri nods quietly, takes his glasses off, and wipes them on his shirt before he puts them back on.

“I am deeply sorry that I didn’t meet you upon your landing in Hinomoto,” he says, hanging his head.  The flower crown falls again, and Yuuri has the absurd urge to burst into tears. 

 _Today feels like the beginning of the end._   The flower crown fell to the ground again, and with it so goes his freedom and his happiness—

Prince Nikiforov picks the crown up and places it back on Yuuri’s head.

_What?_

“It’s alright,” he says, waving a hand dismissively.  “I know I have my fair share of similar instances, really.  Since we might end up married, I suppose I can tell you a secret, Prince Katsuki,” and now he smiles mischievously, though Yuuri feels like it doesn’t really reach his eyes.  “They all call me the Ice Prince because they assume I don’t really care about anything, but to be honest, I just slept through some of those meetings.”

Koi fish.  They swim in the ponds and don’t really do much except eat and look constantly surprised as they move through the water.  That’s what Yuuri feels like right now—kind of hungry and really confused.  He would make a good koi fish.

“I, ah, I see,” he manages, blinking a few times.  Prince Nikiforov smiles again.  It still looks kind of fake, which is funny, because that laugh earlier didn’t sound forced.

“And before I forget my manners again, who might you be?” he asks, turning his gaze to Phichit.  Phichit bows slightly.

“Phichit Chulanont of Xian,” he says, so neutral that he almost comes off as cold.  Yuuri has to resist the urge to reach over and squeeze his hand (that’s not really appropriate to do in front of someone who might be your fiancé, is it?).  His heart aches.  He knows Phichit is not very fond of Nikiforov, simply because Phichit wants to keep Yuuri safe and him marrying Prince Nikiforov is pretty much removing any ability Phichit has to actually do that.

“Ah,” says Prince Nikiforov.  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Chulanont.  However unorthodox these circumstances might be.”

“Likewise,” Phichit says.  He falls silent and looks at Yuuri instead of Prince Nikiforov, a clear indication that he doesn’t want to talk more, and Yuuri takes it upon himself to find something (anything) to say that’d make this silence less awkward.

“Was—was your trip alright?” he blurts out, and then immediately wants to kick himself all over again for falling asleep in the damn garden.  This is the kind of small talk one makes after meeting someone at the skyport, not after they’ve arrived at the castle!

“It was fine,” says Prince Nikiforov with a shrug.  “Considering the time, I slept through most of it.  I imagine the time difference might get to me over the next few days, so I suppose I should apologize in advance.”

Was that a subtle dig at how Yuuri slept through their first planned meeting even without the excuse of long travels?  Oh, god, Nikiforov probably _does_ hate him!

“Don’t worry,” Yuuri says, hiding his uncertainty as best as he can behind a shield of mental blocks.  “I’m pretty sure I’m the last person who can criticize you for sleeping through anything, at this point.”

Prince Nikiforov smiles a sharp, chilly smile.  “I’d agree with that assessment,” he says cheerfully.  “So, tell me about life here in Hasetsu, Prince Katsuki.  What’s it been like lately?  After all, I’m sure it’s created a stir that you’ve gotten my attention, no?”

Great, he’s full of himself, too.  Yuuri wonders if it’s too late to let the ground swallow him after all.

“Life here recently has been similar to life here in the past,” he says.  “I do my duties, whatever they may be, as best as I am able.”  _No, bad phrasing.  Mistake.  You failed your duties today, he can call you out on that again…_   Fumbling for words to add on, he grabs for the last thing he heard and asks, “Why, has it created a stir that you’ve gotten _my_ attention?”

Nikiforov looks startled, like he wasn’t expecting to have his words mirrored back at him, and then he tips his head back and laughs again—the real-sounding one, not the forced kind.  When he looks at Yuuri again, there’s a curious smile playing about his lips, and it doesn’t look fake, either.  “You are intriguing, Prince Katsuki,” he muses. “I have a feeling you’re going to keep me on my toes, aren’t you?”

Yuuri has no idea what to say to that.  Luckily, it doesn’t seem like he has to say anything; Nikiforov is already standing again, gracefully brushing grass from his knees.

“Well, it was lovely meeting you,” he says.  “I do hope I’ll see you at the banquet tonight, but for now I think I shall make use of the hot spring your sister mentioned.  Travel is so tiring, and I could use a bath.”

“It was nice meeting you, as well,” Yuuri says, ignoring the jibe about _hoping_ he’ll be at the banquet.  Or—well—not entirely ignoring it, considering how it makes his cheeks heat up all over again, but, uh, not acknowledging it.

Prince Nikiforov smiles.  Then he looks away, claps his hands sharply, and calls, “Makkachin!”

The dog runs over immediately, tail wagging and excited.  Prince Nikiforov coos and pets his head a little bit, and then they both walk away together, leaving Yuuri sitting in the grass with Phichit and feeling vaguely like he just got hit by a whirlwind.

“Wow,” Phichit mutters.  “What a character.”

Yuuri just nods absently.  “I … I think I need to go wash my glasses.”

* * *

 

— To: Yura —

[16:03] Viktor:  
Yuraaaa Prince Katsuki is so c u t e !!! (*´∀｀*)

[16:04] Yura:  
ew???? fuck off

[16:04] Viktor:  
Makkachin really likes him, you know??

[16:05] Yura:  
i don’t want to be hearing this???? i don’t care??????

[16:05] Viktor:  
He seems kind of shy, but so far I like him.  I wonder if he likes me?  
I mean, as far as first impressions go, I think we both could have done better.  
But that wasn’t my fault! It was more on him than me.  
But that’s fine, because he’s really cute! He had a flower crown, you know????

[16:07] Yura:  
I WILL BLOCK YOU I SWEAR TO FUCKING GOD  
YOU NEED TO MAKE SOME GODDAMN FRIENDS SO I DON’T HAVE TO HEAR THIS SHIT

[16:08] Viktor:  
Awwww, Yura!  Are you saying you’re concerned about my social life????

[16:09] Yura:  
TEXT GIACOMETTI NOT ME YOU GODDAMN OLD GEEZER

[16:09] Viktor:  
Just because my hair is this color doesn’t mean I’m old!!!! (´д｀)  
Besides, I’m still technically an eligible bachelor!!! He hasn’t said yes yet!! That’s why I’m here!!!

[16:10] Yura:  
not a bachelor for long apparently since this guy is “cute”  
fuck don’t reply to that. pretend i didn’t engage you in conversation

[16:10] Viktor:  
Yura!!!! You do care!!!!! (´∀｀•) I knew you did, somewhere deep down inside!

[16:11] Yura:  
no i don’t fuck off

[16:11] Viktor:  
♥(ˆ⌣ˆԅ)

_Notice: This user has blocked you._

[16:11] Viktor:  
Not again…

 _[!] Message not delivered_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a few things!
> 
> 1\. I'm planning to update on a roughly weekly schedule, probably on Fridays, so tentatively expect chapter two around Feb 17th?
> 
> 2\. The title comes from the song "The Rules For Lovers" by Richard Walters! It's a really nice song, I recommend it.
> 
> 3\. Since magic is common in this world and has been for a while, I recognize history would not necessarily have played out the exact same way (if the butterfly effect has massive changes resulting from a small action, this is probably like wrecking ball effect), which is part of why this is a fictional world with strong resemblances to ours instead of just our world with magic. The names of these countries are therefore related to the real countries that they're based on (I used either older forms of the name, alternate readings of the name, or words that gave rise to the name), instead of being the same.
> 
> 4\. Because history technically has been shaped by magic, some aspects of technology also are not the same (for example, magic-powered flight drives transit, so airplanes aren't really a thing, because magic flight has been around for a long time and there was never really a need for the airplane to be invented). For convenience's sake, though, some things remain the same or at least the differences remain unexplained (such as Wikipedia).


	2. flowers in the moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor Nikiforov spends two weeks at Hasetsu Castle. Yuuri Katsuki tries to get used to events that are happening too fast.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I really have no excuse, I should have—”

“Yuuri.”  Mari stops him before he can keep tripping over his own words, her hand landing on his shoulder just for an instant before it drops back to her side. “It’s alright.  It’s alright.  We told him you weren’t feeling very well and he didn’t take offense.”

“He ran into me when I was just sitting in the gardens with Phichit,” Yuuri blurts out, staring fixedly at a point on the floor next to his sister’s left foot.  “I fell asleep out there and he found us just sitting there, I’m so _stupid_ , how am I ever supposed to face him after I missed his arrival because I slept through it in the gardens, oh my _god!”_

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Mari giving him a calculating look.

“It wasn’t a lie, though, was it?” she asks.  “You _weren’t_ feeling well.”

Yuuri pauses.  It’s… true, when she says it like that.  He can’t even justify it by saying he was physically fine, because all morning his anxiety _was_ so bad it made him feel physically ill.  He almost threw up at least three times, and only managed to keep it down with the help of some tea and breathing exercises.

“I guess not,” he admits, shoulders slumping in defeat.  “Phichit and I made flower crowns so I’d have something to do with my hands, but then we fell asleep…”

“You’ve told me yourself that panic attacks and anxious spells are exhausting,” Mari reminds him.  “I don’t blame you.  I’m not mad, and neither are our parents, so the only one upset with you is yourself.  I’m not gonna, like, shame you for being upset at yourself, but just know that you’re not in trouble, okay?”

Yuuri hangs his head.  His family is too good to him, and he doesn’t deserve them, and honestly he just… god, he needs to get his shit together.  That’s all.

“Okay,” he says softly.

“Hey, that reminds me,” Mari murmurs, half to herself.  “If you end up moving to Ruthenia—”

 _“When,_ ” Yuuri corrects her softly.  “I can’t turn this down.  You know that.”

A pained look crosses Mari’s face for a fleeting moment.  “Alright,” she sighs.  “ _When_ you end up moving to Ruthenia.  You need to make sure to bring along extra doses of your meds, because we both know you’re going to want a while to acclimate before you go seek out a therapist to keep prescribing them when you’re out there.  Right?”

“Right,” Yuuri says a little bit uncomfortably, feeling a little strangled.  The thought of being all alone in Ruthenia makes him nervous, even now, when he’s still at home—he imagines it as cold and colorless and draining, like he’ll spend the rest of his entire life buffeted by frozen winds and surrounded by people and yet being oh so very lonely.

(It’s probably his anxiety and depressive issues that are telling him this, but he’s pretty sure he’s way less likely to make friends if he’s open about having problems and needing support when he’s already going to be fighting an uphill battle to get anyone to like him.  It’ll probably be for the best if he just pretends to be fine when he’s in Ruthenia.  Nothing will happen, right?)

“Come on,” Mari says, clapping him on the shoulder again.  “Let’s go to dinner.”

* * *

The welcome banquet, for its part, is a quiet affair, with just Viktor and the Katsuki family.  Not even Prince Katsuki’s friend, Lord Chulanont, is present, despite all the rumors saying he and Katsuki are inseparable, which is a fact Viktor rather appreciates.  It reinforces the vibe of a family dinner, just the Katsukis and the man who might marry their son.

Viktor honestly hopes this alliance works out.  The benefits to both Ruthenia and Hinomoto would be ideal, and he can see himself getting along well enough with Katsuki that the marriage wouldn’t be a problem.  Prince Katsuki is quiet and thoughtful, though he is still a little flustered every time he makes eye contact with Viktor, who of course tries to make eye contact with him more often.  At least his prospective husband-to-be is cute!  And blushes very easily.

As if to prove his point, Viktor catches Prince Katsuki’s eye and winks.  Prince Katsuki reddens and looks down into his bowl quickly.

Viktor hides a grin behind his hand.  It’s almost _too_ easy to make the poor man blush.

(Almost.)

“So, Prince Nikiforov,” says King Toshiya Katsuki, and Viktor looks away from his son to meet his gaze evenly.  King Toshiya seems like a kind man.  He smiles, and Viktor smiles back.  “We deeply appreciate that you could take the time to visit our son as we asked.  If there is anything we can do during your stay here, just let us know.”

Ah yes, more pleasantries.  Viktor is used to this kind of talk.

“Thank you for your gracious invitation,” he replies, smooth and charming as always.  “I, for my part, am thrilled at the opportunity to get to know Prince Yuuri better!”

Using Prince Katsuki’s given name is a bit of a gamble, is more familiar than most people are with royalty on their first meeting.  But Viktor figures that being a little bit forward and direct is a good idea, in this case; it will demonstrate that he’s interested in the alliance and in Prince Katsuki.

He sneaks a look at Prince Katsuki, wondering if he’s blushing again.  It would be a little awkward, he supposes, being talked about as if he isn’t right here.  But he’s a second prince, not an heir, so he probably is used to that already.  He knows he’s generally just a pawn, most likely.  A well-loved pawn, to be sure, but a pawn.  Even those in the direct line of succession are pawns, sometimes.

“Yes,” Prince Katsuki says, and he _is_ a little pink in the face, but he holds eye contact without flinching, “I’m looking forward to being able to get to know you as well, Prince Viktor.”

There it is.  The easy mirroring of anything Viktor throws at him, instead of mere shyness and flustered blushing.  Not to say that the shyness and blushing aren’t present, because they very much are, but there’s _more_ , under Katsuki’s easily-flustered, soft exterior.  Viktor thinks he could get to enjoy talking to Katsuki, at the very least because he seems open and honest and doesn’t try to simper.

Now that everyone is seated and all the food is on the table, Queen Hiroko Katsuki gives the go-ahead for them to start eating by picking up her chopsticks. 

The second he takes a bite of the… whatever-it-is in the bowl in front of him, Viktor feels his face light up.  Queen Hiroko smiles at him knowingly.

“Do you like it?” she asks. 

Viktor nods enthusiastically, but doesn’t answer because there’s still food in his mouth.

The queen laughs softly.  “I’m glad!” she exclaims.  “It’s called katsudon.  It’s Yuuri’s favorite.  We thought it might be fitting to have that be your first meal with us.  This is an old family recipe, actually.”

“She made it herself,” King Toshiya adds, smiling, and Viktor blinks, surprised.  The queen herself making dinner?  Admittedly, only for five people, but _still!_

“Really?” he asks after sipping some water politely.  “That’s absolutely incredible!  I’m honored that you would take your own time to make dinner for us!”

Queen Hiroko waves a hand as if to dispel the praise.  “No, no, it’s no trouble.  I enjoy cooking, and while this match is political, we would still like to welcome you as family.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Viktor says.  “I appreciate it very much!  What did you say this was called again?  Katsa…?”

“Katsudon,” Prince Yuuri says.  There’s an odd look in his eyes that Viktor can’t quite place—he looks wistful and almost haunted, suddenly, but _why?_ —as he stares into his bowl.  “It’s called katsudon.”

“Katsudon,” Viktor repeats.  “Say, Prince Yuuri, do you know how to make it too?  I’m ashamed to admit it, but I’m not a very good cook.  But I wouldn’t want you to never have your favorite dish again just because you’re not in Hinomoto!”

Prince Yuuri blinks.  The sad look in his face fades a little, and Crown Princess Mari gives Viktor a look of approval.  Huh, maybe Prince Yuuri was sad because he was thinking about the things from Hinomoto that he would miss, if he moves to Ruthenia?

“I do know how,” he says softly.  He’s kind of soft-spoken in general, Viktor has come to realize in the short time since he’s been here.  “I don’t think I’ve ever made it as well as my mother does, but I can make it.”

“Fabulous!” Viktor says.  “You could teach me, then.”

“You’d want to learn?”  Why does Prince Yuuri have to sound so surprised about that?  Does he think Viktor is a stuffy nobody who has no hobbies or personality?  Viktor considers asking that, considers teasing like he does with Yura, but quickly decides against that.  He doesn’t know Prince Yuuri well enough for that.  Yet.  “I mean—I’d be happy to, if you’d like!”

Ah, there’s the worry about causing offense.  It’s so boring, talking to people in an endless cycle of fretting and fussing and dancing around real discussions.

“I think I’d like that,” Viktor hums.  “Say, Prince Yuuri.  After dinner, would you take me on a walk?  I saw some of the gardens while looking for Makkachin earlier, and they were very nice.  I’d love to see more of them, and properly at that.”

Also, he’d like to be able to talk to Yuuri himself some, without his parents hanging over their heads.  Plus, Yuuri seemed rather comfortable out in the gardens, earlier.

(He looked absolutely divine, not that Viktor will tell him that right now.  But the image of Prince Yuuri, in simple clothes with blue embroidery and sunlight catching a golden halo around his head, with flowers in his hair and Makkachin in his lap, stays with him.  Yuuri is, well, attractive.  Viktor wonders if he was the one who made the flower crowns for himself and Lord Chulanont.)

(It’s too bad, in a way.  Viktor has a feeling that if they do marry, he’s going to have a husband who pines after someone else.  Lord Chulanont and Prince Yuuri have always been very close, according to both of their rather sparse Wikipedia pages.)

(Yes, he read their Wikipedia pages.  Let it never be said that Viktor Nikiforov doesn’t do his homework.  Except by Yakov, his tutor, who is probably the only person with the right to say _Viktor Nikiforov doesn’t do his damn homework._ )

“Ah, yes, I could do that,” Yuuri says, just a little bit hesitant as he draws Viktor back to the present.  “They do look lovely at night.  I like the moonlight on the water.  It’s peaceful.”

“Peaceful,” Viktor echoes.  “That sounds nice.”

* * *

[20:38] Phichit ♥:  
hey how’s it going, u ok?

[20:41] Yuuri:  
i’m ok. we’re about to take a walk in the gardens, then i think we’ll be done for today

[20:42] Phichit ♥:  
ok. want me to wait up for u?

[20:42] Yuuri:  
yes please

[20:43] Phichit ♥:  
you got it <3

* * *

After dinner, Viktor waits as Prince Yuuri answers some message or other, standing in the doorway that leads out into the gardens again.  Yuuri is silhouetted by the warm golden light streaming from inside, and Viktor takes the opportunity to study him some more.

He doesn’t seem as sad or wistful as earlier.  Still guarded, but that’s probably to be expected, given that there is a complete stranger in his home.  He sighs, pushing his phone into his pocket, and steps out into the night, standing next to Viktor.

“Sorry about that,” he says.  “Which part of the gardens do you want to see?”

“Take me to your favorite,” Viktor suggests.  The gardens of Hasetsu Castle are famed for their extensive variety and their beauty, and while he’s here he’d love to see everything he can, but he has no idea where to start.  So it’s good that he has Prince Yuuri, a Hasetsu native, with him!

“It’s a bit of a walk to my favorite place in the gardens,” Prince Yuuri warns.  “I don’t mind showing you, but…”

“I’m quite alright with a walk,” Viktor assures him.  “I’m not that tired yet, anyway.  It still feels like mid-afternoon to me.”

“Ah, right,” Prince Yuuri says, ducking his head.  “Well, um.  This way.”

He leads Viktor to one of the many paths from the stone steps into the castle, walking along the stepping stones easily.  Viktor follows a little more slowly, having to glance down every so often to make sure he’s putting his feet on the stones and not falling off into the foliage.

“When we were little,” Prince Yuuri starts, pulling aside a curtain of vines and gesturing Viktor through, “Mari and I would come here all the time to play.  There was one tutor I had who absolutely terrified me, though when I look back I don’t think he meant to, and sometimes I would hide from him in the gardens.”

Viktor chuckles.  “We didn’t have huge gardens for me to do that trick in, so I would hide in the secret passages.  The palace in Petersburg has lots of those.  I don’t know if anyone knows the full extent of all of them, to be honest.”

“Really?” Prince Yuuri asks, genuine curiosity in his voice. “I guess whoever built it was very serious about security, then.”

Viktor laughs softly.  “Yes,” he says.  “Whichever of my ancestors that was, I’m sure he was very paranoid.”

Prince Yuuri nods.  “This way,” he says, following a path that runs next to a long, low pool that’s surrounded by pillars covered in climbing roses.  “We’re almost there.  Kind of.”

Well, that’s a cryptic statement.  “I thought you said it was a bit of a long walk,” Viktor says.  “We’ve hardly been out for five minutes?”

“The long walk is after we get there,” Prince Yuuri explains, as if that explanation makes much sense at all. 

“Talking to you doesn’t help clear _anything_ up,” Viktor complains, and Prince Yuuri just shakes his head and smiles to himself.  So unhelpful.

It makes more sense when they round the corner, past a stand of trees and a tall bush, and Viktor realizes that Prince Yuuri is leading him into a hedge maze.  The walls tower over the two of them, black and tall as they rise up against the night sky.  There are a few stars visible overhead, twinkling here and there.

“…Oh.”

Prince Yuuri laughs.  It surprises Viktor into looking at him, because that sounded like a real laugh, not a forced polite one, and his breath catches in his throat because oh, wow.  It’s like the flower crown in the afternoon sunlight earlier, in a way.  Now, Yuuri is in more formal dress, with a thin silver circlet settled on his brow and his hair is a lot neater, but the moonlight just accentuates his features and he’s _striking_.  Especially when he laughs.

It occurs to Viktor Nikiforov, Crown Prince and Heir to the Throne of Ruthenia, that he might be a little bit gay.

(And by “a little bit” he means “a lottle bit”, and by “a lottle bit” he means—well, the point is clear.)

“Don’t lose me in here,” he says lightly.  “I’m not sure I could find my way out again.”

“Don’t worry,” Prince Yuuri answers, smiling over his shoulder at Viktor, and Viktor can’t help but think he already seems so much more comfortable than he did earlier.  Maybe having the ability to control their location and not having to worry about saying things in front of his family is putting him at ease.  “I wouldn’t leave you.  The maze can get confusing, especially in the dark.”

Despite those words, Prince Yuuri leads the way with quiet confidence.  Viktor tries to keep up with the turns he takes— _right, left, right, right, straight, left_ —but gives up after a while as he realizes that this maze must be enormous.  No wonder the Katsuki siblings used to come here to hide.  In this thing, if one doesn’t want to be found, Viktor is pretty sure it’d be impossible to locate anyone.

“There isn’t really one end to the maze,” Prince Yuuri explains as they turn another corner, breaking the silence they’ve been walking in for the past few minutes.  “There are several entrances—eight, to be precise—and many little rooms inside.  They’re all very nice, and I guess we could go to any of them, but I know I have a favorite.”

“Are we almost there?” Viktor asks curiously.  He’s still not very tired, but he _is_ starting to wonder how deep into the maze Prince Yuuri is leading him.

“Almost,” says Prince Yuuri.  “It’s just up ahead.  Do you see that break in the hedge, where the light comes through?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a room, not another corridor.”  Prince Yuuri glances up at him, just for a moment, as if to gauge his reaction, before he picks up his pace just a little.  Viktor steps after him, and soon they turn the corner into the little room.

 _It’s lovely_ , is his first thought.  Illuminated by moonlight is a tall cherry tree, covered in pink blossoms that look a soft indigo under the night sky.  It stands above a small pool, not sculpted like the ones they passed on the way to the maze but more natural in shape, and a stream runs from the pool to the corner of the room, where it disappears under a hedge.  Viktor recalls crossing a few little bridges on their way here and wonders if that stream is the same one they passed.

Prince Yuuri walks to the low, mostly-flat rocks lining the side of the pool and sits down on one, slipping his shoes off and rolling up his pant legs before dipping his feet into the water.

“It’s warm,” he says, looking at the petals drifting on the surface.  “It’s actually redirected from the hot springs under the castle.  One of my great-great-great-grandfathers was adept at earth elemental manipulation, and he made a lot of tunnels to get the hot water all over the grounds.”

Viktor sits down on one of the rocks, too, and after a moment’s hesitation follows suit.  The water _is_ warm, lapping around his ankles, and the smell of the cherry blossoms in the air is sweet.

 _Such a romantic setting you’ve picked for us,_ he almost says, but stops himself at the last minute.  Prince Yuuri is cute when he’s flustered, but he tends to clam up and stop talking when that happens, and these have been the most words he’s really said to Viktor all day.

“Your great-great-great grandfather had some nice ideas,” he says instead.  “This is a very pretty place.”

“Yeah,” Prince Yuuri agrees, smiling sadly.  “I’m going to miss it.”

Viktor’s eyebrows shoot up.  “Going to?  You’ve already made up your mind?”

Prince Yuuri sighs, weary and kind of defeated, and trails his fingers listlessly through the water.  “May I be completely blunt with you, Prince Viktor?”

“Yes.”

“I made up my mind the first day I heard of your proposal,” he says.  “I don’t mean to sound impersonal, but—this alliance is important, that’s what I mean.  I know my country would benefit greatly, and I suppose you know the same for yours, or you wouldn’t have agreed to be offered up like this, so…”

“So, at the risk of sounding impersonal myself, what was the point in inviting me here?” Viktor asks.

Prince Yuuri’s smile gets even sadder, if that’s possible.  “My family doesn’t _want_ to let go of me,” he says. “They know they have to, and I know they will, but they wanted to at least have the reassurance that I would be in good hands.  I think my mother would have seriously tried to renegotiate the terms of the alliance, if she thought you would make me unhappy.”

He’s very close with his family, then.  There’s a heartbeat of silence, marked only by the soft rippling of the water, before Viktor manages to ask, “…And do you think I will?”

“I mean, even if I did think that, I would still tell my parents otherwise, so if you’re worried I would call off the arrangement simply because I feel upset about something, that’s not true,” Prince Yuuri says quickly.  Viktor has to say, he’s kind of impressed by the guy’s sense of duty to his family and to his country, but… way to avoid the question.

“That isn’t what I asked,” he prods.  “We’re being blunt and honest right now, remember?  I promise if you say yes, I won’t be offended.  I’ve been told worse things before.”

Prince Yuuri is quiet for a moment.  “No,” he says, and though his voice is soft (even softer than usual), he doesn’t sound uncertain.  “No, I don’t think you will.”

Viktor lets out a sigh of relief he wasn’t quite aware of holding.  “I’m glad,” he says, honestly.  “It would never be my intention.”

“What _are_ your intentions, Prince Viktor?” 

“Just Viktor is fine,” Viktor tells him suddenly.  “If you’re committed to saying yes, even though that commitment is unofficial right now, we might as well be engaged at this point.  So, please.  Just my given name is fine.  We can dispense with the formalities, at least to some degree.”

“Alright,” says Prince Yuuri.  “Then… you should call me Yuuri.”

“Yuuri,” Viktor says, and smiles.  “It’s a nice name.  I have a cousin named Yuri, you know.  The inflection is different, but it’s _almost_ the same.”

“I know,” Yuuri says.  “Yuri Plisetsky.  You named him as your heir.”

“Ah!  You’ve done your homework, haven’t you?”  Viktor laughs.  It’s too dark to tell, but he thinks Yuuri is blushing again. “Yes.  That’s him.  As to answer your question… what do you want my intentions to be?  Of course I too have the duty to my country much as you do, but for our personal relationship.  Should I be your confidant?  Should I stay distant?  I can be a friend, a mentor, a lover—”

“No!” yelps Yuuri, and Viktor is startled into silence.  “None of that!”

“None of that?” he repeats slowly.  What did he say that was wrong?  People always want _something_ of each other.  “Then… what _do_ you want from me?”

“I just want you to be yourself,” Yuuri says, twisting the hem of his shirt between his hands fretfully.  “Is that too hard to ask?”

 _Be yourself._  

That’s… something that Viktor hasn’t heard in a long time.  A genuine smile spreads slowly across his face, and he reaches over to briefly lay his hand atop Yuuri’s.  It’s forward, perhaps, but Viktor is a forward person, and Yuuri wants him to be himself.

“No,” he says.  “Not at all.  I think I can do that, Yuuri.”

* * *

 

— To: Mila Babicheva —

[21:57] Viktor:  
Why did nobody tell me Prince Katsuki was so cute???

[22:00] Mila Babicheva:  
…………………Yuri blocked you again, didn’t he?

[22:01] Viktor:  
(╥_╥) yes…

[22:01] Mila Babicheva:  
Knew it.

[22:01] Viktor:  
How did you know?

[22:02] Mila Babicheva:  
He was grumpy earlier and you’re texting me this instead of him.  Wasn’t hard to put together.

[22:02] Viktor:  
Oh.  Well.  Am I really that predictable??

[22:03] Mila Babicheva:  
A little bit, yeah.  Anyway, what’s Katsuki doing?  Think he’s gonna say yes?

[22:03] Viktor:  
I have a good feeling about this, yes.  
He’s very cute.  The pictures didn’t do him justice at all.  And the food here is so good!!!

[22:04] Mila Babicheva:  
Nice!!! :) Glad you’re having a good time.

[22:04] Viktor:  
Thank you!

* * *

True to what they both said at the welcome banquet, Yuuri and Prince Vi—no, just Viktor—spend much of the next several days just getting to know each other.  After their frank conversation in the garden maze, Yuuri finds himself a lot more at ease in Viktor’s presence than before.  Yes, he still doesn’t entirely know what to make of him, but Viktor has been… not what Yuuri was expecting.  In a good way, though!

Yuuri had been expecting him to be cold and manipulative and selfish, but that must have been his anxieties and insecurities flaring up and making him automatically assume the worst.  Because, really, Viktor isn’t like that at all!  He’s surprisingly talkative, he gets excited about all sorts of things, and he has literally hundreds of pictures of Makkachin on his phone, which he’s very excited to share with Yuuri at every given opportunity.  (Not that Yuuri minds, of course, even if it does remind him of his own late dog…)

It’s… weird.  He’s spent so many hours fretting about this that it didn’t occur to him to plan for “what if everything _isn’t_ absolutely awful?” and he doesn’t really know what to do with that thought.

So he’s just going to kind of ignore it.  That’s a good plan.

“Yuuri,” Minako prods his arm.  “You’re not paying attention to a word I’ve been saying, are you?”

Yuuri yelps.  “Sorry!  I just—I got distracted!”

“Understandable, given that this is a weird week,” Minako says, with a trace of sympathy in her voice, “but you’d better get your head back where it’s supposed to be!  Come on!  Get with the program!”

Yuuri waves his hands in a sorry attempt at placation.  “Sorry, sorry!  I’m listening now, I swear!”

“You had better be!”  She waves a finger at him intimidatingly, then settles back in her chair and hooks her hair behind her ears.  “Alright.  From the top, I suppose.  I was talking about the theory behind separating your emotions from your projected emotions.  You need to have good control if you want them to contrast, and you need _excellent_ control if you intend to mask your true emotions behind projected ones.”

Yuuri nods earnestly.  They’ve touched on this before.  It’s kind of advanced technique, but he’s pulled it off a few times—only when his head is clear, though.

“Now, I think you should definitely hone this skill as much as possible in the next few weeks,” Minako says, pursing her lips.  “When you’re alone in an unfamiliar place, people will set you aside and mark you as different.  Some might try to use you.  If you run into another empath, they might be able to sense if you’re uneasy, and that could work against you.  So, for your safety, I want you to have this down very well by the time you leave.  Okay?”

“I—I haven’t even officially accepted his proposal,” Yuuri mumbles, enthusiasm dampened by apprehension.  He wilts, shoulders slumping as he stares at his feet.  Viktor might be friendly, but Ruthenia is going to be very different from Hinomoto.

Minako snorts.  “As if we don’t both know you’re going to accept it anyway,” she says, then softens somewhat.  “Yuuri, look.  I’m not trying to scare you.  I just want to equip you with the best tools to protect yourself when you’re over there, just in case something happens or anyone tries anything.  I doubt they will _try_ too much, but…”

“But we should prepare me for the worst-case scenario,” Yuuri supplies.

Minako nods.  “Exactly.  So.  Can you try setting up a shield and a defensive projection?  Or should we work up to that?”

“I need to be able to put it up at a moment’s notice, don’t I?” Yuuri asks.  “I might as well practice that, too.”

“Alright,” Minako says.  “Don’t push yourself too hard, though.  I trust you know your limits.”

“I do,” Yuuri promises.  “I’ll be careful.  I really don’t want to repeat that one time either…”

His teacher snorts again.  “Glad to hear it,” she says.  “Do you still want to practice ballet after we finish up with magic for today, or do you want to do more magic instead?”

“Can we do half and half?” asks Yuuri.  “I want to do both, so maybe we can do half the usual amount of ballet and use the rest of the time to keep practicing this?”

“Sounds good to me,” Minako says.  “Just make sure you get something to eat when you’re done.”

Yuuri smiles a funny little smile.  Maintaining concentration on their conversation while starting to set up his emotional barriers is difficult, but hopefully Minako won’t notice if he answers a split second too late.  “I will, don’t worry.  I’m, um, actually going out with Viktor for lunch.”

“You’re both already on a first-name basis?” Minako arches an eyebrow at him.  “Well, I guess that’s to be expected at this point, huh.  Since you’re intending to go through with it, and all.”

“Yeah,” Yuuri agrees.  The first step, he thinks, is done; he’s separated his feelings into the ones he wants to shield and the ones he wants to project.  Right now, the two streams of consciousness are the same, which makes it easier, but that’s not the point of this exercise.

Carefully, he lets his thoughts wander to relief that he’s done the first bit, to apprehension at his ability to maintain the shield and projection without Minako noticing it, and to anticipation for dancing, later.  It always helps him clear his mind.  As he does that, he makes sure he keeps the projected feelings simple and bland, similar to what they are already.  One day, he’ll be able to make both streams of consciousness display swirls of in-depth emotion, but he doesn’t have that much control yet.

“Where are you both going for lunch?” Minako asks, a knowing glint in her eye, and Yuuri has a feeling she’s onto him.  It’s probably because his projected thoughts are too simple.

He tries to insert a slight jolt of the anticipatory feeling into them, too, as if he’s looking forward to going out for lunch but is kind of nervous, too.  “Into town,” he says out loud.  “He wants to try authentic ramen.”

“Of course he does,” Minako snorts.  “Is he a tourist or something?”

Amusement, in both his inner emotions and the projected ones.  This is hard, Yuuri realizes.  He’s trying to keep his inner emotions separate, but he’s also trying to pretend he’s reacting as he would normally, which makes them … the same?

“He is pretty excited about, um, everything,” he says.  “But don’t let that fool you!  He’s still very committed to Ruthenia and his duties as crown prince.  We’ve talked about that, too.”

“I see,” says Minako neutrally.  “What do you think of him, Yuuri?”

Yuuri sighs.  That’s a hard question, even when he _isn’t_ trying to maintain two distinct trains of thought at once while also pretending he isn’t doing that.  “I…”

What _does_ he think of Prince Viktor Nikiforov? 

He’s smart, he’s charming, he’s enthusiastic, he’s passionate and driven.  He’s also kind of insensitive and full of himself and sometimes he strikes Yuuri as a little bit selfish, though Yuuri wouldn’t say he’s known him long enough to be able to just pinpoint all his flaws.  It’s just… a feeling, more than anything else. 

“He’s alright,” he says after a moment.  “I don’t think I’ll have major problems with him.  I mean, it’s not like I’ve known him long enough to say that for _sure_ , but he seems like a decent guy.”

“Hmm,” Minako hums to herself.  “Alright.  I trust your judgment, then.  He didn’t feel off to you?”

Yuuri shakes his head.  “No,” he says.  “Either he can do split shield-projecting really well, or he’s been genuine the entire time he’s been here.  I think his heart is in the right place.  At least, as far as I can tell.”

“That’s a relief,” Minako muses.  “I haven’t met him myself, so I couldn’t form my own opinions.  You have done well, student.”

“Thank you, teacher,” Yuuri laughs, feeling warm.  Shit—he lost control of the split emotions for a second there!  He’s not good at controlling them both for long durations, apparently, especially not when talking to someone he trusts…

“And since I’m in a complimenting mood today,” Minako continues, and from the return of that same glint in her eye Yuuri knows he’s been caught, “that was a pretty good attempt at holding a split shield-projection during a conversation.  I think you only slipped up when I caught you off guard with a joke and a compliment in one.  Should we work on your sense of humor, or on your self-esteem?”

Dropping the guise of keeping the barriers up is such a relief that Yuuri feels it almost like a shroud has been lifted from his vision and a weight has fallen from his shoulders.  Everything seems clearer and simpler now. 

“Um,” he says, blinking a few times as he adjusts to the lack of magic actively permeating his mind, “I don’t know?”

“You don’t know?” Minako repeats. “Huh.  That sounds like self-esteem to me, then.  Alright.  We can work with that.”

The hours fly by as he runs through exercise after exercise, until his mind is too muddled with magical exhaustion to keep working and he decides he has to call it quits for today, so that he doesn’t do anything stupid like he did that one time when he overworked himself.

“Okay!” Minako claps her hands together sharply, waking him up a bit.  The exhaustion is mental, not physical, and it’s part of why he likes to dance after empathic studies; ballet helps him clear his mind and gets him feeling more like himself again.  “Go change your clothes and start warming up, Yuuri!”

As is usual, Yuuri takes his bag of ballet clothes and heads behind the screen in the corner to change.  This dance studio is where they always meet for his lessons—it’s actually a small ballroom, not really used that often, and Yuuri’s parents gave Minako the green light on turning it into a magical study as well as retaining part of the floor for dance practice. 

Books on empath technique and theory line one wall, next to the two armchairs and small corner table where he and Minako sit during practice, but other than that, the vast expanse of the room is bare, with a smooth wooden floor and plenty of sunlight streaming in from the tall windows.  Overall, it has a very light and airy feel to it, and Yuuri finds it easy to breathe in here.

He stands in the center and does some basic stretches, warming his body up with the familiar movements, and then moves to the barre and starts running through positions.  Eventually, Minako has music playing and Yuuri whirls across the floor, moving with a fluid grace he swears he only possesses in this room.

The minutes fly by when he dances, just like they always do, and before he knows it, Minako has switched the speakers off and the music drains away like water in a tub.

“Time’s up, Yuuri!” she calls, as he straightens from a deep bend.  “You should go get cleaned up before you have to go out for lunch with—”

“Yuuri!” a new voice calls.

Yuuri nearly topples over where he stands.  “V-Viktor?  When did you get here?” he stammers, acutely aware of his sweaty, messy appearance as he whips around to look at the doorway, where Viktor Nikiforov is casually leaning against the wall and looking delighted.

“Just a few minutes ago!” Viktor says cheerfully.  “That was incredible!  I didn’t know you could dance like that!”

“I—uh—that was just practice,” Yuuri says lamely, casting a frantic _what do I do_ look at Minako.  She shrugs and sends him a wave of incredulous bewilderment in response, and he has to stifle a groan.  Why was Viktor watching him practice?

“Do you ever perform?” Viktor asks.  “I’d love to see you on stage!”

“Um, no, not really… I only dance because I like it, that’s all,” Yuuri says awkwardly.  “I don’t think I’d really like having an audience.”

Viktor blinks.  Then his eyes widen.  “Oh, no,” he says.  “Did I make you uncomfortable?  I only meant to come get you for lunch, because your sister said I would find you here.”

“I guess I’m not as uncomfortable as I would have been if I knew you were there,” Yuuri sighs, running his hand through his hair and sidling closer to Minako to seek support in this incredibly awkward conversation.  …Actually, he can just dump Viktor on her for a minute.  “It’s, um, it’s fine.  Anyway, Viktor, this is my dance instructor, Okukawa Minako!  I don’t think you two have met before.”

“Why, you little…” mutters Minako, just barely audible even to Yuuri, and he flashes her a quick grin.  “It’s an honor to make your acquaintance, Prince Nikiforov.”

Viktor comes forward into the room to shake Minako’s hand, photogenic smile firmly in place.  “The pleasure is mine, I’m sure.”

“Well, you two have fun chatting, I’m going to go change!” Yuuri says quickly, grabbing his bag and all but running behind the screen again.  He takes his time doing cool-down stretches, too, before peeling his dance clothes off and quickly pulling on the simple shirt and pants he was wearing earlier.  He _would_ normally take a bath or at least a shower after dancing, but apparently Viktor has other plans…

When he finally comes back out into the main space, Viktor and Minako are seated in the two armchairs, making polite conversation about something or other.  Yuuri pulls his water bottle out of the side of his bag and takes several gulps, then wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and puts it away.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he apologizes.  “I didn’t realize it was already time to go out to lunch…”

“Oh, no, I was bored and came to find you early,” Viktor laughs it off, waving a dismissive hand.  “Are you ready to go, though?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Yuuri says.  “Thank you for the lesson,” he adds, inclining his head to Minako, and she nods back.

“Sure thing, squirt.  Have fun!”

Viktor links his arm through Yuuri’s and all but hauls him to the door.  “So, how long have you been dancing?  What got you to start?  That was so good, you know, I’m not kidding!”

“Um, I’ve been dancing for around seventeen or eighteen years, I think, and I started because… I don’t really know?  I just decided to try it I guess, and stuck with it?”  Yuuri shrugs as Viktor holds the door for him.  “Oh, thanks.”

“No problem,” Viktor says.  “Have you been studying magic that long, too?”

“Oh, Minako-sensei brought that up?” Yuuri glances up at him, surprised.  That's not something either he or Minako talk about with outsiders much; she must have probed Viktor herself and deemed him trustworthy enough to know.  Perhaps Yuuri's own perceptions of him, as well as his intention of marrying him, also were points in Viktor's favor.  “I started magic after I started ballet, but only by a few years.”

“Impressive.”

“Can I ask you something?” Yuuri asks after a moment.

Viktor laughs.  “Of course.  I’ve been interrogating you, haven’t I?”

“You study elemental magic, right?”

“I do,” Viktor says.  “I specialize in ice, for the largest part, though I know some of the basics for fire and air.  When you come to Ruthenia, I can show you some _really_ cool things.”  He pauses, wrinkling his nose, and adds, “Pun unintended, but that was a pretty good pun, so I’m keeping it.”

“That was a bad pun,” Yuuri sighs, a little nervous to tease because teasing implies familiarity but determined to go out on a limb and try it anyway.  He’s starting to wonder if Viktor is planning on letting go of his arm anytime soon.  Maybe it’s just a Ruthenian thing to maintain physical contact a lot?

“It was _not_ ,” Viktor pouts.  “You wound me, Yuuri.”

“I’m not going to argue the merits of objectively bad puns with you,” Yuuri informs him dryly.  “Let’s just go get ramen and put the puns behind us.  Okay?”

“I _suppose_ I can accept that,” Viktor says, and grins.

(He’s still holding Yuuri’s arm.)

(They walk all the way across the courtyard like this, until they have to step apart so Yuuri can put his bag down in his sitting room.)

(Yuuri supposes he’ll just have to get used to this.  They _are_ going to be married, after all.)

* * *

Two weeks fly by impressively fast.  Before he really knows it, Yuuri realizes it’s the last full day Viktor will spend in Hasetsu, and then they’re at the state affairs meeting that evening.

There’s a paper with the agreement and terms of the Hinomoto-Ruthenia Alliance printed in impeccably neat ink on the table in front of him.  There’s a blank, too, waiting for him to sign it.

“Prince Yuuri Katsuki,” his mother says in that all-business tone she only ever uses during these formal meetings, “do you accept these terms, and with them Prince Viktor Nikiforov’s offer of marriage?”

Viktor catches his eye from across the table and smiles slightly.  Mari catches his eye, too, and while she also smiles, it’s notably sadder.

Yuuri takes a deep breath.

“I do,” he says, and picks up the pen and signs his name on the document.  The blank ink glistens as he stares at it, feeling like a heavy weight just settled on his shoulders.  There’s no turning back now.

It’s official.  He’s going to marry Prince Viktor Nikiforov and move to Ruthenia.

Even though Viktor genuinely is much nicer than Yuuri was afraid of, he still wants to run back to his room, the room he grew up in, the room he'll be leaving behind all too soon, and bury his face in his pillows and cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry guys, no drunk Yuuri (yet)... he's not really one for drinking with his parents at this point lol
> 
> also I got excited and tossed my update schedule out the window. oops?


	3. leaving the nest with wings spread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri moves to Ruthenia in preparation for the wedding.

“So,” Phichit says, sitting on the edge of Yuuri’s bed.  “This is it, huh?”

“Don’t say it like _that_ ,” Yuuri protests.  His room looks too bare, now, with so many of his things packed away to be teleported to Ruthenia when he leaves for the skyport.  “That sounds too final.”

“It’s not final!” Phichit quickly reassures.  “We’re still gonna be best friends, even if it’s just best friends with a four hour time difference, when I get back to Xian!”

“Yeah,” Yuuri sighs.  “Still.  It’s gonna be so different, now…”

“I know,” Phichit sighs, too, but perks up again.  “I’ll come visit, sometimes!  And you should come visit me, too, whenever you can, and whenever we can’t do that, we’ll video chat a lot.  And I’m definitely texting you pictures of hamsters at weird hours of the night, that’s not gonna change.  So what I’m saying is, we’ll make it work!  Okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Yuuri agrees, smiling back.  Phichit’s smiles are contagious.  “We’ll make it work.”

“I expect lots of pictures,” Phichit adds, wagging a stern finger in Yuuri’s direction.  “I didn’t make you get an Instagram account just to let it sit there and gather dust!”

“Alright, Phichit,” Yuuri laughs.  “I’ll try to remember to post more pictures.  I imagine I’ll be doing some sightseeing when I first get there, anyway.  Petersburg does have a lot of historical sights.”

“Yeah!” Phichit cheers.  “You can get that Prince Nikiforov of yours to take you on a tour of the city.”

“If he’s not too busy, maybe.”  Yuuri shrugs.  “I don’t want to ask too much of him.”

Phichit crosses his arms.  “Yuuri,” he says, “I know by the rules of crown versus second prince, he technically outranks you, but you’re engaged, and that gives you equal standing in a relationship.  He should be able to make some time for you, _especially_ because you’re engaged.  And you’re going over to Ruthenia so early!  He’d better be there for you if you need him.”

“It’s not that early,” Yuuri says mildly.  “It’s easier to prepare for a political wedding if we’re both there, that’s all.”

“You’re ignoring the rest of what I said to focus on that one sentence?” Phichit asks, wrinkling his nose.  “I’d say ‘unbelievable’, but I’ve known you too long for that.  Yuuri, my point is, you’re allowed to ask him for some stuff.  He dragged you all over the place when he came here, after all.”

“I know,” Yuuri says.  “I just hate asking for help.  You know that.”

“I do,” Phichit nods.  “That’s why I wish I could come with you, honestly…”

Yuuri casts his best friend a fond glance.  “I know you’ve appointed yourself my protector, but I’ll be okay, I promise.”

“You still have the knife I gave you, right?” Phichit asks anxiously.  “It’s enchanted, it’ll get you out of a pinch if you ever really need it!  …I mean, I hope you never need to use it to get you out of some kind of tight spot, but just in case?”

“I still have it, don’t worry,” Yuuri says.  “I packed it already.  You’re fretting more than my mom did, you know.”

“Your mom isn’t your pseudo-bodyguard,” Phichit mumbles, but he’s smiling again.  “I guess you’re right!  I’m fretting like a mother hen.  My Yuuri is growing up and spreading his wings and going off into the wild blue yonder…”

“I’m older than you,” Yuuri reminds him, deadpan.

“That’s irrelevant,” Phichit waves him off.  “I’m the mother hen and you’re the baby bird.  End of story.”

“No, it’s not,” Yuuri contradicts.  “I can fret, too!  Are you going to be okay going back to Xian?  Did your uncle ever reply to you?  Or are you not going back to his estate after all?”

“I get your point,” Phichit laughs.  “Okay, I’ll calm down on the fussing!”

Yuuri crosses the room to sit on the bed, too, leaning into Phichit’s space to poke his chest.  “Way to avoid the questions,” he says, ignoring the undercurrent of worry that starts to spike up.  He’s leaving today, Phichit is leaving later this week, and… this is going to be hard.

(They’ll make it work, he reminds himself.  It’s going to work.)

Phichit catches his hand and pushes it back down to the bed.  “Okay, okay.  In order, yes I’m going to be okay going back.  I mean—I’ve been looking forward to it, in a way, I guess?  I’m not dreading it, at least!  I do want to go back.  So yes, I’ll be okay.  As for my uncle, he didn’t reply, but my aunt did, and she invited me back, so… I’m gonna go try staying with them, at least.  If that doesn’t work out, I have some other plans.  There’s a shadow enchanter’s guild not too far from the estate, and I know I’m good enough that I could get a nice position there if I need it.  So stop your fretting!”

“See,” Yuuri says, “you could have just opened with that.”

“You never told me if you think you’ll be okay going to Ruthenia,” Phichit points out.

“Of course I will,” Yuuri laughs humorlessly.  “Phichit, we both know I can’t be anything _but_ okay.”

“That’s… not really a good answer,” Phichit says quietly.  “Hey, if Nikiforov doesn’t take care of you, don’t be surprised if I turn up and kick his ass, okay?”

Yuuri snorts.  “That might be a breach of general etiquette, but I guess I won’t be surprised.”

There’s a knock on his open bedroom door, and they both look up to see Mari standing there.  She looks impassive, as usual, but there’s something soft in her eyes as she looks at him, sitting there hand-in-hand with Phichit, and Yuuri feels a surge of fondness for his big sister.  He’s really going to miss her.

“Hey,” she says with a slight smile.  “It’s almost time.  Wanna have tea with me before you head out?”

“Yeah, definitely!”  Yuuri scrambles to his feet, pulling Phichit along, too. 

It’s raining today.  The sky is dismal and gloomy and grey, and fat little raindrops roll down the windows as the three of them walk to Mari’s sitting room.  There’s a kettle and some teacups, as usual, and soon enough all three of them have cups of steaming jasmine goodness.

Mari sighs and plops down on the sofa, leaning against one armrest.  Yuuri settles down against her side, his head finding her shoulder, and she wordlessly wraps her free arm around him.  Nobody is surprised when Phichit snuggles up on his other side.  None of them move until they absolutely have to, not even when Toshiya and Hiroko join them in a few minutes.

Yuuri does his best not to cry when he boards the sky-carriage, still clinging to the fading feeling of his family’s arms around him before he left.

* * *

When he arrives in Ruthenia, around twelve or thirteen hours later, he’s exhausted.  Here, it’s only around a late dinnertime, but in Hinomoto it’s almost four in the morning, and all Yuuri wants at this point is a vaguely horizontal surface to lie on and maybe a blanket, if he’s feeling luxurious. 

The second he steps out of the sky-carriage, the temperature drops by around ten or fifteen degrees, and the exhaustion is momentarily forgotten in the struggle to button up his coat with fumbling fingers as he hurries through the bridge to the main building.  It’s warmer inside the skyport, and it’s not a commercial one—this is the Nikiforov family’s private skyport—so at least he doesn’t have to worry about navigating a crowd right now.  He could probably use some coffee.

He’s barely started looking around when Viktor’s familiar voice calls out, “Yuuri!” and he whips around, spotting his… his fiancé easily.  Viktor is already coming toward him, and Yuuri meets him halfway, slowing to a stop and offering a hesitant, tired smile.

“Hi,” he greets, too sleepy for much more than that.

“Hi,” Viktor replies, eyes twinkling.  He takes Yuuri’s hand—oh, okay—and lifts it and _oh, wow, okay, that’s a kiss_.  “Welcome to Ruthenia, Prince Katsuki.”

“Thanks,” says Yuuri, and he must still be dazed from the unexpected kiss that was just pressed to the back of his hand, and also his exhaustion must be getting to him, because the next thing out of his mouth isn’t a polite _I’m honored to be here_ or _I look forward to making Ruthenia my home_ , but instead “Does Ruthenia have any beds?”

Viktor laughs, thankfully.  “It seems you have a penchant for wanting to sleep through anything involving a skyport, hm?” he asks, and Yuuri feels shame simmer in the pit of his stomach, looking away quickly.  But Viktor squeezes his hand, lightly skimming his thumb over Yuuri’s knuckles, and adds, “That was a joke; please don’t be offended.”

“I’m too tired to be offended,” Yuuri says honestly, and then has to fight the urge to clap his hand over his mouth because he’s being _way_ too honest right now.  “Um… did anyone else come with you, or…?”

Thankfully, Viktor shakes his head _no_.  “There was talk of having a larger welcome reception,” he says, “but I guessed you might prefer some time to rest before having to pull yourself together to meet everyone.”

“Oh,” Yuuri says.  “That… was thoughtful of you.  Thank you.”

“You don’t have to sound so surprised about it,” Viktor says, and Yuuri almost winces before he realizes that that, too, was a joke.  Part of him wants to joke back, to make some kind of friendly jab about _well, I just never know with you, thoughtful doesn’t really fit with the image of someone who takes his dog into a hot spring without considering the fact that everything will smell like wet dog afterwards_ , but he refrains, cautious and muted.  They’re not in sunny, safe Hasetsu Castle anymore.  This is unfamiliar territory.

Instead, he glances down at their still-joined hands as they start walking out of the skyport.  He holds hands with Mari and with Phichit, but usually not with people he’s not close to, so this is… different.  “I, ah… are you always this tactile?”

Viktor looks surprised, starting to pull away.  “Should I not be?  My apologies, I didn’t stop to think—”

“I don’t _mind_ ,” Yuuri blurts, catching at his wrist to keep him close.  “It just—it’s not what I’m used to, that’s all.”

“Alright,” Viktor hums, seeming pleased as he intertwines their fingers again.  “Would you like to get dinner, Yuuri?  I’ve been given free reign with you this evening; the welcome events for you are all later on, not tonight.  There’s the banquet tomorrow, and the engagement ball in a week.  So we can do anything you’d like.”

Yuuri considers that.  Pushing aside thoughts of banquets and engagement balls (thinking more than a few hours ahead requires more brain capacity than he has at the moment), dinner does sound pretty good—he never eats much while in a sky-carriage.  Somehow the feeling of the magic swirling as the air elemental mages guide the winds around the carriage always lulls him into a drowsy state that keeps him from getting very hungry.

“We can get dinner,” he decides, “so long as we’re going somewhere that has coffee.”

Viktor arches one elegant, silver eyebrow.  “Are you sure?” he asks.  “It might keep you up late.”

“Either I drink some caffeine,” Yuuri explains, “or I fall asleep the second I sit down, and you’ll have nobody to talk to over dinner, and my neck will hurt from sleeping at a table instead of on a bed.  It’s a lose-lose situation.”

“Is that so?” Viktor asks, amused. “I suppose I should thank you for considering my potential boredom as a factor in deciding whether you need coffee.”

They reach the outside of the skyport before Yuuri suddenly remembers his promise to Phichit and stops walking suddenly, digging in his pocket for his phone.

“What is it?” Viktor turns to him, curious. “Is something wrong?”

“No, I just remembered—can we get a picture?”  It’s a silly request, and out of place for someone who’s been travelling for over half a day and looks like a mess, and embarrassment floods through him as soon as the words leave his mouth, but Viktor doesn’t seem like he’s laughing at him.

“Of course!” he says, simple as that, and drops Yuuri’s hand to throw his arm around his shoulders. 

Yuuri snaps a quick selfie—the lighting isn’t great and it’s slightly blurry, but he feels too self-conscious to try a second time, so it’ll work just fine.  “Sorry,” he mumbles as he focuses on attaching it in a message so that he doesn’t have to maintain eye contact.  “I know that was a weird thing to ask.  I just—I promised Phichit I’d send him lots of pictures, so…”

Something flashes through Viktor’s eyes too fast for Yuuri to recognize it, when he finally looks back up.  But when he taps into his empathy, he senses awkwardness and perhaps… regret?

“It’s not weird,” Viktor says, more quietly.  “I, ah, I’m sorry for making you move so far away from him, and I know this must be, well, not ideal, especially the part where you’re marrying a different man, and—”

“Wait, wait, wait, _stop_ ,” Yuuri interrupts, startled enough to forget his manners again.  “Marrying another—wait, you—you think I’m—me and _Phichit?_ ”  The thought is enough to get a laugh bubbling out of his chest, though he tries to hide it behind a hand.  Dating _Phichit_ —not that he thinks Phichit would be a _bad_ partner, but he’s never felt that way about him, and oh, man, if he hears this he’s going to laugh _so hard_ —

Viktor blinks, and for the first time he looks taken off-guard and uncertain.  “You… mean… you aren’t romantically involved with him?”

“No!”  Yuuri shakes his head, eyes wide.  “No, no, what even made you _think_ that?  I—Even if I _was_ dating him, which I promise I am not, I would have broken it off as soon as I knew I was going to be _engaged_ —”

“Yuuri,” Viktor says, still looking bemused, “you would not be the first person in a romantic relationship who ended up marrying someone else for the sake of politics.  I’m not expecting—I mean, we just met, if you still have feelings for Lord Chulanont it’s not like I’m going to begrudge you for that…”

“I don’t have feelings for him, not like that!” Yuuri protests.  “Viktor—he’s my best friend, okay?  I’ve never once actually wanted to date him, I still don’t even know what gave you this idea!”

Viktor levels a flat, deadpan stare at him.  “The first time I met both of you, you were lying together in a garden and holding hands while wearing matching flower crowns.”

…Okay, put like that, it’s kind of incriminating, Yuuri supposes.

He’s about to explain that it hadn’t been romantic, though, that Phichit had gotten him to sit out there in the sunlight and weave flowers together as something to channel his nervous energy into, that the hand-holding was because physical reassurance always helps Yuuri ground himself when he feels like he’s about to break down into a panic attack, but then he realizes he’s not ready to talk to someone who’s still only somewhere between “friend” and “stranger” about his mental health.  It feels too private, too personal, and the words crumple and die in his throat.

“It was all platonic,” he says lamely instead.  “We just… did things like that as friends.  You have my word, if that means anything to you.”

Viktor frowns, no doubt recognizing the sudden shift in Yuuri’s voice, the lack of mirth and the feeling of hollow emptiness.  “I’ve offended you.”

“You haven’t,” Yuuri says quickly.  Maybe a little too quickly.  “I’m—I’m just tired.”

It’s the oldest excuse in the book.  At home, if he ever says that, Mari always immediately puts on tea and asks what’s wrong, or Phichit gets out movies and ice cream and asks if he wants to talk.  Saying _I’m just tired_ was a code-word for _something is wrong_ , back in Hasetsu.

Here, in the context of strangers-to-friends, it’s a shutdown, not an open door.

“If you say so,” Viktor says, sounding oddly dissatisfied, and leads him to his waiting car.  This time, he doesn’t reach for Yuuri’s hand, and Yuuri finds himself almost missing his touch.  His hand was warm, and it might be spring, but the air here is still cool.

* * *

 

[8:04] Yuuri:  
good morning did u know that apparently viktor nikiforov thought me and u were dating

[8:05] Phichit ♥:  
AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA HOLY SHIT WHAT

[8:05] Yuuri:  
I KNOW.

[8:06] Phichit ♥  
yes yuuri……… im in love with you……………… head over heels…

[8:06] Yuuri:  
gasp!!! oh, phichit!!  
alas, it is too late for us… i am a man who is to be married to another!!

[8:07] Phichit ♥:  
nooooooooooooooooooooo (˃̩̩̥ɷ˂̩̩̥)

[8:07] Yuuri:  
our love is forbidden… doomed to never actually be a thing idk

[8:08] Phichit ♥:  
smh yuuri that completely ruined the dramatic tone. “idk”, really??  
y u gotta toy with a guy’s heart like this </3

[8:09] Yuuri:  
i am a heartbreaker

[8:09] Phichit ♥:  
for REAL tho!!!!   
i cant believe i confessed my undying love to u only to get an “idk”

[8:10] Yuuri:  
hey in my defense the idk was not a direct reply to ur love confession!!

[8:10] Phichit ♥:  
okay ill give u that  
but   
…you have been typing for a while.

[8:13] Yuuri:  
oh my dearest beloved!!!! how can i bear this separation from you, forced upon me by my duty to my country and sure to be miserable without you here by my side </3 </3 </3 every hour since i left you i have wept 23 whole tears. it is as if i left my heart in hinomoto, and you will take it with you to xian, and on the day of my wedding it will surely break in two and OKAY I CANT DO THIS ANYMORE I AM STILL IN BED AND LAUGHING TOO HARD

[8:14] Phichit ♥:  
YUURI  
23 WHOLE TEARS IM LOSING IT HAHAHAH

[8:15] Yuuri:  
are u happy now??? does that make up for the idk??

[8:15] Phichit ♥:  
idk   
;D

[8:16] Yuuri:  
blocked.

[8:16] Phichit ♥:  
NOOOOO I THOUGHT U LOVED ME :(

[8:17] Yuuri:  
i do!!! <3

[8:17] Phichit ♥:  
!!!! ♡(.◜ω◝.)♡

[8:18] Yuuri:  
ughghhh phichit i don’t wanna get up and do things

[8:18] Phichit ♥:  
u gotta

[8:18] Yuuri:  
i knooowwwww

[8:19] Phichit ♥:   
u gotta  
ur not up yet  
get up  
if i have to be awake rn so do u

[8:20] Yuuri:  
but it’s only 8 here. it’s 12 there.

[8:20] Phichit ♥:  
and???  
get up!! go eat breakfast!!!

[8:21] Yuuri:  
ughhhh fineeeeee maybe ill go take a walk? its kinda cold tho

[8:21] Phichit ♥:  
get a lot of sweaters and take a walk!  
think of it this way: if you get out of bed, you can have tea.

[8:22] Yuuri:  
……………u rite ok im up im up

* * *

Yuuri feels the rush of someone else’s irritation slam into his mind several seconds before he sees the angry teenager who barrels around the corner and nearly slams straight into him.

Blinking in the early morning sunlight, he stares at the startled face in front of him for a second before realization kicks in.  “Ah,” he says.  “You must be Prince Plisetsky—”

“Shut up,” Prince Plisetsky growls, glaring darkly up at him. “You’re engaged to _him_ , I don’t want to hear a _word_ from you, nobody would agree to marry that asshole after meeting him unless they’re just as bad, so leave me alone!”

Um.

Isn’t Plisetsky Viktor’s officially-named heir?

“You… don’t get along?” he asks, confused, and the irritation only surges.  Perhaps that was the wrong thing to say…

“Are you telling me you _do_ get along with him?” scowls Prince Plisetsky.  “I knew it!  The only way—I don’t want to talk to you, get out of my damn way!”

“I—okay,” Yuuri says, clamping down tightly on his emotions.  The last thing he wants to do is accidentally project his own bewilderment.  It’s a weakness, in unfamiliar places, and if the confusion is bad, then the slight hurt at this immediate rejection from someone who could have potentially been a friend or at least an ally is _definitely_ a weakness.  “I’m sorry,” he adds, stepping aside, because apologies never hurt when trying to smooth things over, even if he doesn’t have a clue as to what he’s apologizing for.  Nearly running into him, maybe?

Prince Plisetsky drops the animosity so quickly that Yuuri almost gets whiplash.  A good chunk of his anger melts into surprise, too, gently tapping at Yuuri’s emotional barriers instead of roaring like tongues of flame, and it’s such a big change that only years of training prevents Yuuri from reacting to it.

“You’re actually apologizing?” Prince Plisetsky asks, and he injects derision into his voice, but Yuuri can tell he doesn’t entirely mean it, so that takes some of the bite away from the words.  “You’re weird as hell.”

Yuuri blinks.  “Uh… sorry?”

Prince Plisetsky rolls his eyes.  “Are you just a massive pushover, is that what you are?  I _guess_ that’s also an explanation as to why you’d willingly marry that—I mean, _Viktor_ of all people…”

“Did you two have a fight or something?” Yuuri asks tentatively.  Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say, because the anger flares up again, and under it… is that hurt?  What _is_ Viktor’s relationship with his cousin like, anyway?  There’s obviously some kind of nuance here that Yuuri is missing.  He makes a mental note to ask Viktor later, politely of course, and also to try and do some figuring out on his own.

“As if I’d tell you that, even if we did,” scoffs Prince Plisetsky.  “How’s this.  You just stay out of my way, and we won’t have _problems_.”

“Sure,” Yuuri agrees amenably, because he’s not particularly interested in making enemies on his first full day in Ruthenia.  And anyway, what would he be doing to get in Prince Plisetsky’s way in the first place?  He can’t think of anything.

Prince Plisetsky’s face darkens for a moment.  “And you should remember,” he adds, scowling, “that this isn’t Hinomoto.  You don’t belong here.”

He whirls on his heel and storms back the way he came, his coat swirling about his shoulders as he leaves.  Yuuri stares after him, utterly bewildered.

_You don’t belong here._

“As if I didn’t already know that,” he mutters, shaking his head.  Taking a walk after talking to Phichit seemed like a nice idea earlier, but he really ought to get back to his room soon.  He told his family he’d call before going out today.

_God_ , he misses Hasetsu.

* * *

The welcome banquet in Ruthenia is nothing like the one the Katsukis held for Viktor.

It’s in a huge hall, for one, and it’s much more formal, with a long table full of people, and along the way, there were reporters asking questions about the agreement and the engagement and Yuuri’s arrival in Petersburg, and it’s left him feeling rather overwhelmed.  He would want to claim illness and flee to his room, foreign but at least _his_ , except that he’s not here just for himself, and he knows it.  He’s representing his homeland, and this is bigger than just him and his anxieties.

The thought is almost comforting, in a roundabout nihilistic way.  If Yuuri himself doesn’t really matter, then it doesn’t really matter how he feels about things, so long as they get done, so he can just stuff his feelings to the side and put on a calm, collected, confident front.

(Not for the first time, he finds himself _very_ grateful for all the mindfulness training that comes with learning empathic magic.)

Right now he sits at the banquet table in the position of “guest of honor”, at the right of the queen and across from Viktor.  At the head of the table is Queen Vasilisa Nikiforova—Viktor’s mother and the ruler of Ruthenia, and a very, _very_ imposing presence.  Yuuri is kind of (more than kind of) intimidated.

And of course, at his other side is Prince Plisetsky, as if things aren’t awkward enough.  He feels _trapped_.

“So, Prince Katsuki,” Queen Nikiforova says, her piercing gaze boring holes straight through Yuuri’s eyes and into his soul.  She reminds him of a hawk, somehow, and if she’s a hawk he’s a mouse that’s desperately trying to avoid getting skewered and eaten.

“Yes, Your Majesty?” he says, as even and polite as he can manage.  _Neutral smile, keep your voice level, don’t fidget with your glasses, that’s your nervous tell_.

“You arrived in Ruthenia yesterday evening, did you not?  How are you liking our country so far?” 

That feels like both small talk and a loaded question rolled into one.  Yuuri reminds himself that nobody here actually knows he’s an insecure wreck masquerading as a human being, pastes on a confident smile, and answers with the evenness that comes from years of practice, “It’s lovely, Your Majesty!  I’ve spent a lot of today admiring the architecture of the castle and grounds.  It’s very different from Hinomoto’s style, and it’s very nice.”

Architecture.  _Really?_ Well, at least it’s a safe topic.  …Maybe too safe.  That might make him look meek or vapid.

“I know I’m looking forward to getting to know Petersburg,” he adds, and then wonders if the pause between his sentences displayed his hesitation too obviously.  Perhaps it would just be dismissed as a breath between phrases.

At the very least, Queen Nikiforova doesn’t immediately strike him down, either verbally or physically.  “There are many things to learn about our city,” she answers, sounding wise and stern and still terrifying.  “Vitya would be happy to show you around, I’m certain, after all the hospitality you demonstrated when he visited Hinomoto.”

Viktor perks up at the mention of his name, and Yuuri could cry from relief that the queen’s attention isn’t solely on him anymore.

“Yes, I would love to!” Viktor exclaims.  Prince Plisetsky snorts derisively but says nothing, and Yuuri really can’t help but wonder what he _did_ to make his fiancé’s heir detest him so.  “There are lots of places I can show you, and so many different people who you should meet!”

“Well,” Yuuri says, offering Viktor a small smile (mostly so he doesn’t have to meet Queen Nikiforova’s gaze any more than he has to), “if you have the time, I’d like to see your Ruthenia.”

Prince Plisetsky snorts again.

“Yuri,” Queen Nikiforova says sharply, and Yuuri stiffens, ice seizing around his spine, before he realizes she wasn’t talking to him—she refers to him as Prince Katsuki—she was talking to Prince Plisetsky.  “Do you have something to say?  Or are you just coming down with a cold?”

Prince Plisetsky looks like a deer caught in the headlights.  “I—nothing,” he says quickly, ducking his head.  “I’m fine, Aunt.”

The noblewoman seated next to Viktor laughs, and Yuuri wracks his brains for her name—Right.  Babicheva.  Lady Mila Babicheva.  Her family has historically been loyal to the Nikiforovs for generations and is one of the oldest noble houses. 

“Prince Yuri,” Lady Mila says, a teasing smile tugging at her lips.  “Don’t tell me you’re falling ill in springtime?  I thought people usually get sick in winter!”

Prince Plisetsky scoffs.  “I’m not talking to you, Babacheva.”

“ _Yuri_ ,” the Queen reprimands sternly.  “Behave yourself!  This is a banquet in honor of our soon-to-be family member.  Show some respect to our guest by respecting everyone at this table!”

_It’s fine, don’t worry, I don’t feel disrespected,_ Yuuri wants to say, just to stop the tense feelings around him, but he has a strong feeling that Prince Plisetsky would take such an intervention as pity.  And if he lets people walk all over him, personally, they’ll probably take it as an invitation to walk all over him as a representative of Hinomoto, too, which is the opposite of what he wants.  He’s supposed to represent Hinomoto’s strength and stability.

So he stays silent and quietly accepts that Prince Plisetsky is going to hate him, no matter what.  The boy seems pretty set on that anyway, so it’s not like Yuuri trying to be nice to him will change anything.

Lady Babicheva (or is it Babacheva?  No, he’s pretty sure it was Babicheva… Oh.  “Baba”cheva.  Of course.) just laughs into her hand, eyes twinkling.  If whatever Prince Plisetsky said was offensive to her, she doesn’t show it.  Instead, she just looks at Yuuri and smiles sunnily.  “Hi, Prince Katsuki!  It’s a pleasure to meet you.  My name is Mila Babicheva!”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Yuuri says automatically, smiling back.  Prince Plisetsky seems to be consciously attempting to hold back another sarcastic sigh or something, and Yuuri _really_ wants to pull him aside and ask what his deal is, but he knows he can’t do that.  At least, not yet.  Maybe later.

“Prince Viktor has told me about how lovely Hinomoto is,” Lady Babicheva smiles.  “There were lots of things he said he really enjoyed about his trip, some in particular I think—”

“Mila,” Viktor says, a tiny bit of warning in his voice.  Yuuri’s eyes flick to him for just a moment.  So, Viktor confides at least some things in Lady Babicheva?  That combined with her family’s historically close relationship to the crown probably means she’s a staunch ally of the Nikiforovs, which makes her someone Yuuri definitely wants on his side in this court.  Not everyone here is a fan of the Ruthenia-Hinomoto Alliance.  Some people actively want the arrangement to be broken off.

(Apparently, Prince Plisetsky is one of those people…?)

(Anyway.  Yuuri can muse about all this later, in the safety of his bedroom, instead of at the table.  It wouldn’t do to lose focus and zone out, not here.)

Lady Babicheva laughs.  “What?” she asks, a teasing note in her voice, and Yuuri adds _Lady Babicheva is close enough to Viktor to tease him_ to his list of mental notes about the relationships at this table.  “I was just going to ask him what _his_ Hinomoto is like.  From someone who grew up there!  I’ve never been myself, but I have to say I’m curious.”

She looks across at Yuuri inquisitively, brows raised and her bright blue eyes pinning him in place.  Her stare is a _lot_ easier to weather than the queen’s, though, so he’s alright with that.

“Ah… Hinomoto is, um…”

Mari’s face flashes through his mind, followed by his parents and Minako and Phichit, and he blinks to overcome the sudden wave of homesickness.

“Hinomoto is a very beautiful place,” he says after a moment, thinking of the view of the sea at sunrise.  “Hasetsu Castle is close to the beach, and that’s always been one of my favorite places to go.  My sister and I both like to watch the ocean.”

“There’s a beach not far from here, too!” chirps Lady Babicheva.  “I’m pretty sure it’s colder than the one you were talking about, but I go sometimes.  It’s a little ways away, but I and Georgi—that is, Lord Popovich, he’s on Prince Yuri’s other side—”

Prince Plisetsky leans back, arms crossed and scowl in place, to let the dark-haired man next to him offer Yuuri a smile and a nod.  Yuuri nods back, making himself smile again, and then looks back to Lady Babicheva.

“—we like to go there sometimes to listen to the gulls,” she says.  “Perhaps next time we go, we can invite you?  I think you might like it!  It’ll be like a little piece of home, maybe.”

The two of them go to the beach together?  As friends or something else?  Yuuri doesn’t think he’s heard of either Lady Babicheva or Lord Popovich being involved, but he can never be sure.  That goes down on the mental list of _things I need to quietly find out_.

“I would love to accompany you, if you would have me,” Yuuri says, formal and polite and grateful.  “Thank you for considering my feelings about familiar places.”

He’s careful not to say “home”.  That word has too many connotations of loyalties, and Yuuri doesn’t really want to get into the verbal chess match that comes with people like Queen Nikiforova prodding to see how far he will go to defend Hinomoto versus how invested he is in Ruthenia.  He’s in a tight spot already, as the fiancé of the crown prince of Ruthenia while the terms of the alliance did not make him give up his claim on the Hinomotan throne.  It’s a fine line he has to walk.

It basically boils down to this: he’s representing Hinomoto’s interests in Ruthenia, but he has a commitment to Ruthenia’s interests as well, and must be sure to represent both loyalties in balance.

He suppresses a tired sigh.  It’s only been one day and he’s already exhausted. 

_Well, this is my life now.  I might as well get used to it._

(Getting used to it isn’t enough.  He’s going to be _good_ at it.  That’s the goal.)

“Gosh,” Lady Babicheva laughs into her hand.  It sounds genuine, and the emotions Yuuri can read from her don’t feel hollow either.  “Please don’t take this the wrong way, Prince Katsuki, but you’re so cute!  Don’t worry, you don’t have to be so incredibly formal.  We’re friends, here!”

“Mila,” Viktor sighs again.  Yuuri can practically feel the fond exasperation rolling off him in waves.  “Don’t overwhelm him, please.”

“Oh, no, don’t worry!  I’m alright,” Yuuri quickly reassures.  Only years of practice keeps him from nervously flicking his gaze to Queen Nikiforova to see if she looks disapproving or not.  She’s _scary._   “I’m touched, really.  It’s very kind of you to be so welcoming, Lady Babicheva, and Lord Popovich,” he adds, awkwardly glancing past Prince Plisetsky again.  “Thank you both.”

“Of course,” Lord Popovich says.

“Are you done talking over my head?” Prince Plisetsky asks grumpily.  He sounds like… an angsting teenager, Yuuri thinks, and immediately shields his flash of amusement under a shield of false contentment.

Viktor gets a grin that Yuuri knows, even after only two weeks with him, means trouble.  “Oh, Yura,” he purrs, “if only you were taller, people would talk _around_ you instead of over—”

“ _Viktor_ ,” Queen Nikiforova interjects.  Viktor freezes, his eyes going almost comically wide, and then gives his mother a contrite look.

“My apologies, Prince Katsuki,” says Queen Nikiforova, disapproval lacing every line of her body as she purses her lips and eyes both Viktor and Prince Plisetsky.  Then she looks at Yuuri, pinning him with that penetrating gaze again, and… and smiles?“I’m afraid you, too, will have to get used to living with … _this._ ”

A _joke?_

From _Queen Nikiforova?_

Yuuri thinks he might feel a little bit faint.

“I—I think I’ll manage, thank you for the concern,” he hears himself answer, and makes sure he’s smiling back at her.  “My good friend, Lord Phichit Chulanont of Xian, was rather notorious in Hasetsu for being a rather, ah, _forceful_ personality.”

“Is that so?”  Queen Nikiforova arches one perfectly-curved eyebrow, _just_ so, and Yuuri takes a careful sip of his water to buy himself a moment to think of how in the world to respond.

_Mental note: text Phichit “thanks for being such a lovable idiot and providing me with stories to tell the queen of Ruthenia over dinner” later._

“Yes,” he says, placing the glass back down.  Shit, what’s a good story that’s harmless but funny without making anyone involved look bad? 

…Oh.  That one…  It’s a good story, but…

“Several years ago,” he says, and maybe he feels a little bit distant because he’s being extra-careful not to let any messy, sad emotions through his barriers, “he and I took a walk in town.  We were on our way back from helping out at the spring festival when we found a puppy running around.  Covered in mud, half-starved, but still energetic enough to run up to us and trip me,” he laughs.

“Awww,” murmurs Viktor.  He rests his chin on one hand.  “That poor puppy!”

Yuuri smiles at him.  Viktor is, by far, the easiest person here to talk to, and if he looks at him instead of the queen, the story is a lot easier to tell.

“That’s exactly what Phichit said,” he says.  “And we agreed we couldn’t just leave him there, not like that.  And I was afraid that if I went back in through the main entrance of Hasetsu Castle with a muddy dog, someone might try to persuade me to just take him to a shelter or something, and I wanted to ask my parents if I could keep him, and—” he breaks off again, shaking his head and laughing softly, “and when I was younger, I absolutely hated confrontation of any sort, to the point that I was terrified of the thought of having to tell a castle guard or one of the ministers that I was going to take care of this poor dog, so we were at a loss for a while.

“So here I was, with a puppy asleep in my lap and therefore making me unable to move from the bench, and I was so worried about what would happen to him, and I was also worried that we were taking too long and my family would start to wonder where we were, and Phichit gets this _brilliant_ idea. 

“Looking back on it, I can’t believe he actually talked me into it so easily, but…  So, long story short, that’s how I ended up climbing a rope dropped from my own bedroom window with a muddy dog in my shirt, while my best friend tried to pull me up as fast as he could so we wouldn’t get noticed for smuggling a dog into the castle before I could talk to my parents.  All because I was afraid of contradicting one of the gate guards, and Phichit didn’t want to force me into a situation that would make me uncomfortable.”

In retrospect, Yuuri can safely say that being caught by Mari was probably the best possible way this situation could have actually turned out.  He’s pretty sure his parents wouldn’t have taken it as well, considering he was dangling out the window on a rope with a dog in his shirt.  Mari just sighed and helped Phichit haul him the rest of the way up.

Queen Nikiforova is smiling now, a smile that reaches her eyes and looks surprisingly like Viktor’s.  Yuuri feels around with his empathy and doesn’t detect any major negative emotions from her, which is… a huge relief.

“That certainly does sound like an adventure,” she says, amused.

Prince Plisetsky scoffs. “You should have just gone through the main entrance, what was the point of that?”

“Never mind him,” Viktor says, leaning forward with a grin.  “Did your parents not let you keep the puppy after all?  Why didn’t I get to meet him?”

Yuuri feels his smile freeze in place, then fade slowly.

“He, um, passed away a few months back,” he answers, as neutrally as he can.  Across the table, he sees Viktor’s eyes widen in shock.

“Oh,” he breathes.  “I’m so sorry, Yuuri.”

He seems to really mean it, too.  A wave of sadness rises and crashes over Yuuri, leaving him breathless for an instant, his heart in his throat and his eyes pricking at the thought of his poor, dear beloved puppy, but he can’t let himself be sad right now, so…

_Another mental note: send Minako-sensei profuse thanks for the emotion training_.

This is a trick that he’s pretty sure comes partly from just being emotionally aware, and partly from having empathy magic, but either way, he has the ability to… push away his own emotions, for a while at least.  He just takes the sadness and stores it away for later, leaving an odd void of numbness in its place.  That’s how it goes.  This is familiar, too.

“It’s alright,” he says, and is pleased when his voice is as smooth as it has been all evening.  “You didn’t know.”

Viktor still looks contrite and apologetic, and Yuuri has to admit he’s a little uncomfortable with the attention and the _pity_.  Lady Babicheva is looking at him sadly, too, and he doesn’t dare look at the queen, so instead he wracks his brain for a moment and comes up with something else to say, something to get out of the spotlight.

“How did you end up with Makkachin, Viktor?” he asks, tilting his head to one side curiously, and Viktor, always excited to talk about his dog, lights up.  Yuuri inwardly breathes a sigh of relief when the collective gaze of his companions leaves him and goes to his fiancé.

That night, Viktor walks him back to his room, linking their arms like he often does.  It’s more formal this time, though, with the firmer, more pronounced hold that Yuuri is familiar with instead of Viktor’s casual … casual desire for touch, maybe?  Whatever it is, Yuuri lets him set the pace as they walk.

“Did you enjoy the banquet?” he asks.  “I hope everyone wasn’t too overwhelming.  I know we can all be, well, a lot.”

“I did,” Yuuri says, and is surprised to find that he’s actually mostly telling the truth.  “It _was_ kind of overwhelming, but not really in a bad way.”

Viktor laughs softly.  “I’m glad,” he says, just as they reach Yuuri’s door.  Yuuri starts to pull away, but Viktor stops him, and he looks up curiously.

“Viktor?”

“Yuuri, I just wanted to say, I am sorry for asking such an insensitive question, in front of everyone too,” he says, and his gaze is just as intense as his mother’s.  “I hope I didn’t make you too uncomfortable, and I’m sorry for your loss.”

Yuuri pauses.  This setting is very different from the banquet hall—it’s just the two of them in a softly-illuminated hallway, so it’s much more private, much more personal—and he’s a little tempted to admit _I was kind of upset, and I’m probably going to cry about my dead dog now, actually_ , but something holds him back.  That would probably be too much, given that they’ve only really known each other for two months, and six weeks out of those two months were spent corresponding almost entirely through text.

“It’s alright,” he says instead, offering the closest thing he can come up with to a reassuring smile and laying his hand on Viktor’s arm for just a moment.  “Like I said, you didn’t know.  I’m not upset with you.”

“But you _are_ upset?”

Damn him for being perceptive enough to … have eyes.  Yuuri’s growing melancholy was probably really obvious after the banquet ended.

“A little,” Yuuri admits.  “But it’s fine—”

Viktor pulls him into a hug.

Yuuri stiffens, letting out a squeak of surprise and staring at the collar of Viktor’s shirt with wide eyes, but he relaxes after a moment and links his hands at the small of Viktor’s back, bowing his head to let it rest on Viktor’s shoulder.  Viktor chuckles, and Yuuri can feel it in his chest.

“Mila was right, you know,” he murmurs.  “You _are_ cute.  I hope you feel better soon.  Is there anything I can do?”

Feeling heat rush to his cheeks, Yuuri squeezes his eyes shut and doesn’t lift his head.  “Um,” he mumbles, “this is… this is nice?”

It’s funny.  Yuuri has never really considered himself a tactile person, but just two days away from home has made him realize how used to contact he is anyway—he doesn’t usually seek it out, except when he needs comfort, but he’s accustomed to an occasional pat on the shoulder from Minako, or a ruffle of his hair from Mari, or the cheek-pinches he always complained about from his mother.  Even just the incidental contact of casually leaning against his father while watching a movie, or his leg pressing against Phichit’s when they sit together, was always something he took for granted.  He never really considered how lonely it would be, physically, until he came here and spent the last however-many hours intensely conscious of his body and other people’s personal space.

So… yeah.  This is nice.

They stand like that for another minute or so, long enough for Yuuri to shuffle a little closer so that he’s not awkwardly leaning forward, and long enough for him to become conscious of the silence and both of their breathing.  It’s not as awkward as he was afraid it would be.

Finally, after doing some quick time zone calculations— _it’s around three in Xian and five at home.  Everyone’s probably asleep_ —he lifts his head from Viktor’s shoulder, signaling his withdrawal, and Viktor’s arms slowly drop from around him.

“Thank you,” he says softly, looking down. 

Viktor touches his cheek to make him meet his gaze.  “You’re welcome,” he says warmly, his fingers still brushing Yuuri’s cheek for a moment before he drops his hand.  “Good night, Yuuri.  Sleep well.  I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Good night,” Yuuri echoes, and steps into the empty sanctuary of his room.

* * *

[23:02] Phichit ♥:  
landmass is homopjobic  
yuuri where r u  
yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuri  
lamdmass is homophobia  
yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuriiii

[23:07] Yuuri:  
it is three in the morning in xian right now

[23:08] Phichit ♥:  
landmass is homophobic

[23:08] Yuuri:  
three. in the morning.

[23:09] Phichit ♥:  
landmwss is homopbhoic

[23:09] Yuuri:  
you are half asleep, put your phone away, go to sleep  
are you drunk??

[23:10] Phichit ♥:  
landmasd!! is!!! homopgoiba!!!2

[23:10] Yuuri:  
phichit oh my god. why are you doing this??

[23:11] Phichit ♥:  
MI GAY AND M ISS MY BES T FRIEDN  
U R 2 FAR!!!!!!1!!  
CONTNEINTS ARE INCOVNEINCENCING ME  
FUCK IDK HOW TO SPELL INCOIVNENICNIG IM TIRED AND A LITLE DRUNK??/  
LANFMASD IS HOMIOPHOBI SO IS FATIGEU

[23:12] Yuuri:  
omg… phichit…  
i miss you too ♥  
please go to sleep, i’ll call you in the morning when i get up?

[23:13] Phichit ♥:  
HOMOBIPBOA

[23:13] Yuuri:  
good night phichit ♥♥♥  
i’ll talk to you tomorrow!!  
also im renaming you in my contacts rn, jsyk. anyway, good night!

[23:14] homobipboa:  
renamign me???  
ughhghghgh im gonna slepe,fine  
cant keep both eyes open anymore  
good nigth <2  
fuck  
<3

* * *

“You are going out with Prince Katsuki today, aren’t you?”

Viktor blinks, looking from his lovely dog to his lovely mother.  “Yes,” he says.  “I’m taking him out to see the city a bit, since he’s still settling in.  Why?”

Queen Nikiforova sighs, stirring her tea and pressing her lips together into a thin line.  She settles on the richly upholstered couch opposite to him and regards him over the coffee table for a long, long moment, long enough that he stops cooing over Makkachin and starts to wonder if there’s something on his face and this is her passive-aggressive way of letting him know.

Then she shakes her head.  “Be careful, Vitya.”

_That_ certainly gets his attention, and he sits up straight, letting Makkachin be for now.  “What do you mean?”  Is she suggesting Yuuri is untrustworthy, or is she talking about something else—like the current tensions in court, which could spill over onto his slowly blossoming friendship with Yuuri?

His mother looks down into her tea, brow creased.  “Ivanovich’s group is gaining some traction,” she answers.  “You know they would much rather we strengthen bonds with Víteliú, because Ivanovich himself has investments there.”

“Right, right, and if the tariffs are lowered he stands to make a nice profit and he’s paying off all his supporters to be friends with him,” Viktor supplies the rest, wrinkling his nose in distaste.  “What a sad little man.  How much do you mean by ‘some’ traction?”

If it’s enough to have Vasilisa Nikiforova concerned, Viktor probably should be worried.

“It’s hard to say for sure,” she replies, frowning.  “They’re being awfully quiet these days.  It’s what has me suspicious.  Lilia Baranovskaya’s latest intelligence suggests they have been meeting in secret, outside of court.”

“Lots of people meet each other outside of court, officially or not,” Viktor frowns back, crossing one leg over the other and resting his chin on his hand contemplatively.  “What makes her think this is significant?  Are they conspiring against the crown?”

“Officially, I cannot tell you that they are.  That would be a serious accusation.”

Viktor meets his mother’s eyes.  “Unofficially, then.”

“We don’t have conclusive proof yet, but Lilia and I share the concern that it’s a possibility.”  She takes a sip of her tea, and Viktor hums to himself in thought.

“I’ll be careful, then,” he says, and makes a mental note to remember to check on Yuri.  If Ivanovich tries going after his cousin, which Viktor has a feeling he might, since Yuri is still young enough to be considered impressionable, there will be hell to pay. 

But he’s not too worried.  People conspire against the crown all the time. 

“You had better,” Queen Vasilisa answers.  “And keep an eye on Katsuki.  We’ve been trying to expand our sphere of influence in the east for generations now.  I will not let this alliance slip through our fingers.”

“I know, Mother,” Viktor says, stroking Makkachin’s head.  “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the plot thickens...
> 
> to those of you who commented, thank you so much for the kind feedback! i have to say, i'm glad the world is having a good reception. magic + technology together is kind of like, my favorite aesthetic in a setting, so i was super excited to combine it with plotty worldbuilding and stuff. anyway, there's still a lot to come! (the next few weeks are midterm season for me, so updates might be a little slower, but i'll try to stick to a chapter every week if i can!)
> 
> next time: yuri and yuuri talk for more than 0.2 seconds, viktor has to be a prince, and the engagement ball finally arrives.


	4. a waltz for the chance i should take

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri tries to find his place in Ruthenia's royal court, Yuri doesn't want his life to change, and Viktor is smitten.

[13:04] Yuri Plisetsky:  
beka you know blood magic, what’s the best way to hide a body?

[13:07] Yuri Plisetsky:  
…are you there????

[13:11] Beka:  
Sorry I was away from my phone  
Also should I be concerned  
This is a hypothetical question right

[13:12] Yuri Plisetsky:  
…for the moment yes

[13:12] Beka:  
Not a reassuring answer…

[13:13] Yuri Plisetsky:  
question still stands tho

[13:13] Beka:  
First of all you know that’s not really how blood magic works  
Second of all even if I do know hypothetically how to hide a body  
Whose body are we talking about?

[13:14] Yuri Plisetsky:  
nobody important

[13.14] Beka:  
_file sent: [_[ _doubt.png_](http://vignette3.wikia.nocookie.net/walkingdead/images/6/6a/Doubt.png/revision/latest?cb=20131203000806) _]_

[13:14] Yuri Plisetsky:  
rude???? wtf

[13:15] Beka:  
My question still stands too  
Whose body?

[13:15] Yuri Plisetsky:  
youre not gonna tell me are you  
i thought we were FRIENDS

[13:16] Beka:  
Friends don’t let friends make bad decisions  
Please do not murder anyone

[13:16] Yuri Plisetsky:  
well how ELSE am i supposed to get rid of viktors fucking fiance?????

[13:17] Beka:  
Thought it would be him.  
Yura you know the second prince of Hinomoto is kind of someone important

[13:17] Yuri Plisetsky:  
well i don’t like him so fuck off

[13:18] Beka:  
Why not, did he do something to you?

[13:18] Yuri Plisetsky:  
he’s a pushover and viktor wont fucking shut up about him and im fucking sick of it  
if i cant kill either of them then i need to find a technomancer or some shit  
i can block viktor from texting me but how do i make him fucking shut up irl???  
i want to block his stupid face and his stupid fiances stupid face and never see them again

[13:20] Beka:  
…  
So what’s actually bothering you

[13:21] Yuri Plisetsky:  
i hate them both!!!!!!!!! i just told you!!!!!!!!!  
don’t you fucking dare send me that dumbass doubt man in the ugly hat again or i will kill you

[13:22] Beka:  
Ok I won’t send it…

[13:22] Yuri Plisetsky:  
stop being a smartass i don’t like it

[13:23] Beka:  
Sorry.  
What’s actually bothering you though  
Don’t give me the hate thing again I know you don’t hate Viktor you’ve told me that yourself

[13:24] Yuri Plisetsky:  
………nothing is actually bothering me other than that they both suck

[13:24] Beka:  
If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine, but I’d like it if you wouldn’t lie to me

[13:25] Yuri Plisetsky:  
ugh fine i don’t like this bc   
this is so fucking stupid i cant believe im about to say it  
but like  
you know how ive told you i don’t actually hate viktor

[13:26] Beka:  
Yes

[13:26] Yuri Plisetsky:  
yeah well when we were younger me n him were closer than we are now  
and then all this bullshit got in the way and i moved away from petersburg for a while and all  
and we just. idk. grew apart  
this is so stupid!!!!! fuck!

[13:28] Beka:  
I don’t think it’s stupid  
Keep going?

[13:28] Yuri Plisetsky:  
it is pretty stupid but thanks i guess  
idk it just feels like he doesn’t care abt me anymore??  
which is fine bc i don’t care abt him either so idk why im upset now lol

[13:29] Beka:  
What did I just say about lying

[13:30] Yuri Plisetsky:  
look being honest about feelings is not my strong suit im trying ok

[13:30] Beka:  
I can see that and I appreciate it.    
Just wanted to clarify you don’t HAVE to lie to me, is what I should have said

[13:31] Yuri Plisetsky:  
…yeah  
okay well yeah that’s whats going on lmao

[13:32] Beka:  
And how does Katsuki come into this?

[13:33] Yuri Plisetsky:  
UGH  
viktor wont shut UP abt him and tbh that alone makes me hate him  
like viktor keeps praising him so much that looking at him makes me irrationally angry  
ive talked to him like twice and idk hes just so bland and ORDINARY!!!!  
idk what the hell viktor sees in him!!!  
also i hate that we have the same name. i know this is actually stupid but it annoys me

[13:35] Beka:  
You’ll always be my preferred Yuri

[13:35] Yuri Plisetsky:  
lol thanks beka

[13:36] Beka:   
Of course  
This is just a suggestion but do you think you could try to get to know him?  
Katsuki I mean. And outside of his relationship with Viktor  
That might make you more sure of where you stand with him and with Viktor

[13:37] Yuri Plisetsky:  
ughghhhhhhghghhghghhghghhghghghhhhgh  
i GUESS………………………  
hes going on a picnic w mila and georgi tomorrow…… i guess i could go too…………

[13:38] Beka:  
That could be a start, good idea  
Hey sorry but I have to go – dinner with council of ministers soon  
We can talk about this more afterwards, if you aren’t busy

[13:38] Yuri Plisetsky:  
yeah sure, have fun at dinner or w/e, im still mad u wont tell me how to hide a body

[13:39] Beka:  
Trade secret, sorry

* * *

“Okay!  I think that’s everything!”  Mila claps her hands together, satisfied as she looks down into the picnic basket for one last check.  That’s everything for four people, yup!  Picnic blanket, sandwiches, fruit, cups, plates, flatware, a large bottle with a heating charm for hot chocolate…

Prince Katsuki peers over her shoulder to look, too.

“Napkins,” he says almost immediately, and then flushes.  “I mean—shouldn’t we bring napkins?  Sorry, that was blunt.”

How _cute_.  She almost giggles.  “No, no, you’re right!  We did forget napkins.  As for bluntness, don’t worry.  We have to deal with both Prince Nikiforov and Prince Plisetsky around here, so compared to them, you’re still the paragon of politeness.  As far as I think most of the court is concerned, you’re a breath of fresh air!”

Prince Katsuki ducks his head, smiling shyly.  “Well… thank you,” he says.  Mila has to resist the urge to pinch his cheeks like her grandmother always does to her.  “If I may ask, though… there’s sets of four of everything in the basket.  I thought only three of us were going?”

Mila blinks.  “Oh,” she says.  “Oh, _right_.  Prince Plisetsky invited himself along at the last minute.  I must have forgotten to tell you, I’m sorry!”

Prince Katsuki looks startled.  “What?  He did?”

Mila nods, swiveling around to grab a stack of napkins and stuff them into the basket.  “Happens a lot,” she shrugs.  “He doesn’t like being cooped up here.  He likes to pretend he doesn’t like anyone, and he’s kind of terrible at expressing affection, but don’t let that put you off!  He’s not that bad, really.”

Prince Katsuki seems thoughtful, like he’s turning over the pieces of a puzzle and trying to fit them together in his head.  Mila wonders if he’s trying to figure out the weird puzzle of Yuri Plisetsky’s personality.  Have they ever met, save at the banquet?  She doesn’t think so.

“I see,” he says.  “Well, alright then.  If he wants to come, I don’t have a problem with it.”

Of course he doesn’t.  The crown prince’s fiancé having a problem with the crown prince’s heir?  That would cause a mild uproar.  But of course he had to say it aloud, too, out of politeness’s sake.  Truly, Mila thinks wryly, the hoops that etiquette forces everyone to jump through can be ridiculous.

“Wonderful,” she chirps in response. “Well, alright, I think _that’s_ everything!  Care to double-check me again, in case I forgot something else?”

Prince Katsuki acquiesces, leaning forward and peering into the basket for a moment.  When he leans back, he shakes his head.

“I think that’s everything,” he says.  “Should we be going, then?”

“Of course!” Mila grins.  Prince Katsuki picks up the basket before she can, the apparent picture of gallantry, and she loops her arm through his free one to lead him out of the kitchen.  Technically, there’s no reason for a lady of the Babicheva family to be here, but the cooks know she likes to putter around occasionally and oblige her by leaving this corner to do with as she pleases.

When they leave the kitchens, Mila whisks Prince Katsuki outside quickly, into the nippy spring air, where Georgi and Yura (or, rather, “Prince Plisetsky”, as he prefers to be called) are waiting.

“Took you long enough,” Yura scoffs, arms folded across his chest.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Prince Katsuki answers mildly, and Mila stifles a laugh at how indignant Yura looks that he isn’t getting more of a response.  “Please, lead the way!”

“I hope you like it,” Mila says as they pile into the car.  “It’s probably not warm enough for us to go splash in the water much, but the beach is still nice!”

“That’s no problem,” Prince Katsuki assures her.  “I used to go down to the beach in winter sometimes, just because I liked listening to the waves, even if it was cold.  I think this will be similar.”

“Did you write sappy poetry while you were at it?” Yura mutters, staring out the window.  Mila considers ruffling his hair and cooing at him, but decides against it—he seems like he’s actually in a bad mood, not just being grumpy as normal, and at times like these he draws his title around him like a defensive cloak.  He’d just snap at her for being too familiar with a prince if she tried.

“I was never much of a poetry person,” Prince Katsuki answers.  It’s almost hilarious how calm he is in the face of Yura’s rudeness. 

“Ugh,” Yura groans.  Next to Mila, Georgi sighs, long-suffering as always.

Luckily, it’s not a long drive to the beach.

* * *

The court of Queen Nikiforova is a dangerous place.

It’s almost funny, Viktor thinks, surveying the room with a cool, detached gaze.  Everything about his pose is calculated, from his relaxed, slight sprawl in the chair at his mother’s right side (it portrays confidence, being at ease because he belongs here), to the way his chin rests on his hand (mild interest, some indulgence), shoulders back but not _too_ far back (calm, cool, collected, without looking like he’s actively trying).  He’s been practicing this for all his life.

The doors at the near end of the long hall open with a brazen fanfare, and right as the clock begins to chime the hour, Queen Nikiforova sweeps imperiously into the room to take her place on the throne.  She favors Viktor with a glance, a smile, and a nod.

“You’re looking well, son,” she says, settling down with her usual grand demeanor.  She has a cape today.  She doesn’t always wear one, as she’s told him she honestly finds them kind of flashy and annoying, but perhaps she’s indirectly reminding the court that tonight is the engagement ball—as if anyone could forget.

“Thank you, Mother,” he answers, curving his lips into a small smile in response.  “As are you.”

The arrival of the queen signals the end of the room’s flurry of activity, courtiers and representatives of the media all settling into place and quieting immediately.  Petitioners wait outside, but the first two hours are reserved for the council meetings and private hearings before the queen.  Viktor languidly sweeps his gaze across the lords and ladies seated in lines in front of the throne and wonders if Lord Ivanovich is going to give up on protesting the alliance with Hinomoto yet.

Probably not.  The man is more than a little transparent about his preference for Víteliú.  Besides, it’s not like he’s the real problem here.

Who else might show up to petition the queen?  There’s always Lady Vershynina—her preferred cause is domestic, not international, but she’s often speaking up on behalf of expanding infrastructure and boosting local economies.  Which Viktor agrees is a good idea, especially in theory, but comes with lots of strings attached, in practice.  The money has to come from somewhere, and nobody is ever happy about that part.

Notably absent, among others, are the seats of Mila Babicheva, Georgi Popovich, and Yuri Plisetsky.  At this last, Viktor holds back a sigh; for all his insistence that he’s mature and ready to rule, little Yura can be so impulsive.  One day, these court meetings won’t be optional for him anymore. 

Then again, perhaps that’s why he takes advantage of the fact that he _can_ run from them. 

_I hope you’re enjoying your freedom, Yura,_ he thinks, idly drumming his fingers on the armrest.  _It won’t last._

Drawing himself out of his musings, he picks up the small gavel at his side.  As crown prince and the right hand of the queen, it’s his role to direct court—a role that one might think the queen should fill, but this is custom.  Perhaps it’s to suggest that the queen is above such things.  Either way, this is how it has always been done in the courts of Ruthenia, as long as the Nikiforov dynasty has ruled.  When Viktor ascends to the throne, Yura will be the presiding official of the court.

_Rap, rap._

The last of the shuffling and muttering in the assembled room dies like a plug has been pulled.

“With the authority granted to me by the throne, I now call this session to order,” he announces, voice ringing in the stillness of the hall.  “As per custom, this is a closed chamber.  Those who wish to address the throne may illuminate their signals at this time, and keep them illuminated until the order of the docket has been established.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, several glowing emblems appear above the seats—enchanted images, designed to appear at the press of a button to signal that one of the members of the court wants to speak.  Viktor notes down what order they lit up in ( _Vinogradov, Golovkina, Ivanovich, Petrov, Vershynina…_ ).

Part of him is a little tempted to snub Ivanovich by bumping him down to the bottom of the docket, even though he was one of the first to light up his signal, but he knows that that would just be petty and his mother would disapprove.  For all her sternness, she’s never been able to get rid of his petty streak. 

What can he say?  He doesn’t like the guy for a lot of reasons, only _one_ of which is his commitment to getting in the way of the alliance with Hinomoto.  His fashion sense is honestly a crime against humanity, for one thing.

But court business is court business.  He compiles the docket, which is projected at the front of the room in much the same way as the signals are projected in the chamber.

“Duke Vinogradov,” he says.  “You have up to seven minutes to present your case to the throne.  The floor is yours.”

Vinogradov, the elder of two sons whose family has long served the Nikiforovs, nods graciously as he rises.  “Thank you, Your Highness.”  He directs a bow to Queen Vasilisa, smooth and courteous.  “Thank you for your time, Your Majesty.  I am here to bring your attention to recent issues with trade with Vespuccia…”

As he starts to drone on (the elder Vinogradov is a stout fellow with his heart in the right place, but he’s honestly such a _bore_ ) Viktor is a little tempted to tune him out.  He doesn’t, of course, because this is important business and it would be unthinkably rude of the son of the queen to snub an ally like that, _and_ in addition to that he’s the presiding officer of this chamber, but he still kind of wants to text Yuri and ask how the picnic is going.  Or Yuuri, for that matter.

As soon as Vinogradov finishes speaking, thanks the Queen again, and sits back down, a signal flashes to life before Viktor can even thank him and open the floor for a response.  He raises an eyebrow at Baroness Miloslavskaya and does not call on her.

“Thank you, Duke Vinogradov,” he says, all languid grace and mild criticism as he glances at Miloslavskaya again, smiling that lofty _I-know-better-than-you_ smile, as though he’s an indulgent parent who knows worlds more than an errant child.  Her face reddens, and she darkens her signal, scowling at the floor. “I will _now_ open the floor for rebuttals.”

Miloslavskaya’s light flares to life again.  Viktor smiles.

“Baroness Miloslavskaya,” he says.  “You have four minutes on the floor.”

“I thank the Chair,” Miloslavskaya says, stiff and formal and almost glaring at him.  Viktor just smiles back, frigid and untouchable and utterly sure of himself.  It’s a chess game, being in court, a chess game with a hundred players and a thousand nuances.  A constant tightrope walk, really.

It’s almost a shame—he wouldn’t _mind_ being nice to her, instead of cold and smug, except that she disrespected the crown by trying to speak out of turn, and one of the duties of the crown prince is to create and uphold a seamless, impenetrable wall of pure _power_ around the throne.  He is an extension of his mother’s sovereignty, and as such he cannot let these things slide, not here in her very court.

Also?  Miloslavskaya’s family has ties to Ivanovich and his motley crew, so Viktor doesn’t like her.  Simple as that!

(It’s his petty streak again.  Runs at _least_ a mile wide.  His mother is probably internally despairing, behind her steely exterior.)

This is why the Queen’s court is a dangerous place.  It’s not just a game of chess—this game has too many consequences, and the need for power that drives so many of these pawns forward is tricky.  All things must come in balances, in some way, and maintaining the balance of power and compromise that allows the throne to be absolute is a tricky line to walk.

Ah well.  It might be tricky, but Viktor was born to walk it, and he’s damn good at what he does.  _Icy Prince_ , they call him, seeing his razor-sharp smiles and his apparent boredom with proceedings.  It’s all a carefully cultivated image, but they don’t seem to know that.

Actually, it’s like playing a convoluted game of chess if the board is made of quicksand.  Loyalties are constantly shifting and the map is almost never the same from one day to the next.

…Perhaps he’s getting a bit too caught up in metaphorical ponderings.

He directs his attention back to Baroness Miloslavskaya’s speech with some effort; it has some valid points, but others make him want to object to correct her on either facts or her interpretation of them, but as presiding officer he can’t do that—it’s the job of anyone who cares to rebut after she finishes speaking.  He’s the mouthpiece of the Queen’s authority, and he can only offer his input if she signals him to speak.

He shifts in his seat and sighs internally.  Court always does make for such a long day.

* * *

By the time they’re finishing up lunch and working on dessert, Yuri is thoroughly regretting his decision to come on this stupid picnic.  _Fuck_ Otabek’s advice to “get to know Prince Katsuki outside of his relationship with Viktor”.  Fuck this picnic and fuck the beach, too!  This _sucks._

“How’s unpacking going?” Mila asks Stupid Prince Katsuki, conversationally, because they all keep making conversation despite the fact that Yuri really wants to punch them until they shut up.

“Mostly done,” Stupid Imposter With The Same Name Prince Katsuki responds with a friendly smile.  “It’s helped with the time change, actually.  When I start getting tired when I shouldn’t be, I keep myself up by organizing things.  Although I’m just about out of things to organize, now…”

The most infuriating part of all of this is that So Incredibly Perfect Prince Katsuki hasn’t actually done anything to make Yuri hate him.  He hasn’t given him an actual reason, and for that alone, Yuri despises him.

…There may be a flaw in his logic somewhere.

……Can he say he hates Prince Katsuki for forcing him into flawed logic?

“Yeah, nice to see you making yourself at _home_ here,” he bites out as sarcastically as he can, glaring daggers at Viktor’s stupid fiancé before whipping his head away to stare out to sea.  The waves are a deep blue-grey today, crashing against the sand and sparkling almost too brightly to look at.

“Prince Plisetsky, that was uncalled for,” Georgi rebukes gently.

“You’re uncalled for!”

“What is this?” Mila asks.  “Middle school?”

Yuri comes very close to telling her to go fuck herself, but stops himself at the last moment because if he does and she tattles on him to his grandfather, he’s going to get a lecture full of stern disapproval and a look full of mild disappointment, which is almost worse.

“Nobody asked you,” he says instead.  “I was talking to Georgi.”

“And before that, you were talking to Prince Katsuki,” Mila folds her arms over her chest.  “You’re being awfully petulant today.  Mind telling us what’s up, Yura?”

_“Mind your tone!”_ Yuri snaps.  “I outrank you, and I will _not_ have you talking to me like that!”

Mila sits back slightly, looking kind of stung, and Yuri has to pretend he doesn’t feel a stab of guilt for snapping at her.  There—that’s something he can hate Prince Katsuki for!  It’s all _his_ fault that Yuri had to be like this to one of the only people he has ever considered a friend!

Mila opens her mouth to say something—probably a demure and fake apology—but before she can, Prince Katsuki speaks up.

“Prince Plisetsky,” he says, and Yuri’s gaze snaps to his stupid, unfairly pretty face.  He looks so mild and harmless and boring, but there’s steel in his eyes that Yuri didn’t know was there before, not with all his bowing and apologizing and bullshit.

“What?” Yuri snaps.

“A word,” Katsuki says, and rises, inclining his head along the beach.  “Alone, please.”

Politely-worded but brooking no argument.  Yuri is tempted to argue anyway, just to see how far he can push this pansy, but the guilt-that-isn’t-there prods him uncomfortably in the stomach and he finds himself getting to his feet, scowl in place, and stalking off in the sand.  Prince Katsuki falls into step at his side easily, tall bastard that he is.

When they’re far enough away that the wind probably will drown out any words Mila and Georgi could hear, Yuri glares up at his companion.

“What do you want?” he asks.

“I think,” Prince Katsuki says, and then wavers for just a moment before he sighs.  “I think we got off on the wrong foot, Prince Plisetsky.  But I have to admit, I don’t know why.  What did I do to make you hate me?”

Hah!

Isn’t _that_ the million-dollar question!

“You came to Ruthenia,” Yuri answers irritably.  “I don’t want you here.”

Prince Katsuki blinks, as if that’s not the answer he was expecting.  “So… that’s it?” he asks.  “I guess I just never realized Viktor’s own heir would be against the alliance.  I see.”

Fighting down the irrational surge of anger at hearing Katsuki call his stupid cousin _Viktor_ , like they’re _friends_ or some shit, Yuri stamps his foot in the sand.  “Bullshit!” he glares, throwing caution and politeness to the wind.  “I’m not against the alliance, I just don’t want _you_ here!”

Prince Katsuki looks taken aback, but he recovers gracefully and quickly, and he’s just so damn perfect that Yuri hates him even more.  “I’ve met you twice, before today,” he says.  “What, exactly, did I do wrong?  I have to admit, Prince Plisetsky, I’m confused.  If you don’t want to be around me, why did you decide you wanted to come on this picnic?”

Yuri wants to throw his hands up to the sky and also just yell for a solid minute.  However, that is generally deemed socially unacceptable and would probably bring Mila and Georgi running, so he has to refrain.  Unfortunately.

“Fine,” he snaps.  “I came on this stupid fucking picnic because I wanted to see what you were like when Viktor _isn’t_ around, and I didn’t say I don’t want to be around you, I said I don’t want you _here!_ In Ruthenia, you idiot!”

Wait, fuck, shit, no!  He let his anger get the best of him and _he just swore at and also called the prince of an allied country an idiot_ and oh boy he’s going to get an earful from the _queen_ probably, not just a disappointed look from Grandfather.

Great.

“This has to do with Viktor?” Prince Katsuki asks, tipping his head to one side.

“Of _course_ this has to do with Viktor!” Yuri exclaims.  “What _else_ would—ugh, you just—you’re so— _ugh!_ ”

“Please help me understand,” Prince Katsuki requests.  Yuri thinks he might rather just walk into the ocean.  Or even better would be if Prince Katsuki would just walk into the fucking ocean.  That’d be great.

“What's there to understand?” he asks, voice full of venom. “I hate you.”

“Well, there's something we have in common,” Prince Katsuki mutters dryly, quietly enough that Yuri has a feeling he wasn't supposed to have heard it at all. It's... That's weird. That picture perfect _so wonderful_ Prince Katsuki might...

Yeah, that's weird and Yuri isn't going to bother dwelling on it anymore.

“Viktor thinks you're _so_ interesting and cute and whatever other saccharine words he pulls out of his ass,” Yuri adds. “He never shuts up and I'm so sick of it! He's _my_ cousin, and--”

_Too much too much this is too close to home you're being too honest!_

He clams up immediately and just glares, jamming his hands into his pockets as the stiff sea breeze whips his coat out around his legs.  Prince Katsuki looks thoughtful.

“I think I see now,” he says. “You resent me for taking him away?”

“ _I hate you_ ,” Yuri seethes, livid beyond words because this _asshole_ just so calmly stated the thing that's been nagging at him for days, an agonizing itch under his skin, like a fire that refuses to go out.  So calmly! As if he's just above it all!

A deep breath leaves Prince Katsuki’s lungs, and for the first time, he looks vulnerable, like he did at the first meeting.  He sighs, runs his hand through his hair, adjusts his glasses, and then shrugs a little helplessly.

“Okay,” he says.  “Okay.  If you want to hate me, that’s fine.”

“What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?” Yuri explodes, fingers curling into tightly clenched fists in his pockets.  “Don’t you fucking care about _anything?_   Or do you just always stand there being impassive and so—so perfect and sure you’re right and being the better person?”

“I don’t understand what you want from me!” Prince Katsuki exclaims, and Yuri feels a small surge of vindictive glee that he got a rise out of him, that there’s something under the pristine manners and the polite, sugar-coated exterior.  “Do you want me to hate you back?  Because I don’t, and I won’t!”

_“Why the hell not?”_

The question, torn out of his throat before his mind can catch up and process and figure out whether it’s one he _should_ be asking, surprises both of them.  Yuri stares at Prince Katsuki in silence as the sea wind whips around them, and Prince Katsuki looks back with wide eyes.

“You haven’t done anything to me,” he says after a moment.  “You haven’t given me any reason to hate you.  And I’m glad for that, because I don’t _want_ to hate you.  I’d _like_ —” and here he pauses, he _hesitates_ , and Yuri would be lying if he said he wasn’t gleeful again, because it proves Prince Katsuki is human, “I’d like it if we could be friends, but I understand that that’s probably not going to happen.”

…What the _hell?_

“You’re weird,” Yuri tells him.  He already called him an idiot and swore at him, so calling him weird is probably harmless at this point, considering he’s already pretty much guaranteed a lecture from his aunt and quiet disappointment from his grandfather.  It’s fine, though.

“Yeah,” Prince Katsuki agrees.  He smiles, a kind of shy, secretive smile that’s… surprisingly different, Yuri thinks, from the polite, distant smile he’s worn ever since the welcome banquet a few days ago.  “So… could we, maybe, start over, Prince Plisetsky?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Yuri asks skeptically, frowning.

Prince Katsuki shrugs again, a little awkwardly.  “Can we try to get to know each other, outside of the fact that I’m engaged to your cousin?  I mean—I understand if you would rather just hate me, I’m sure that’s the easier option, at least—but if we’re going to be family, in some sense of the word, I’d _like_ us to have a decent relationship, but…”

“You’re _weird_ ,” Yuri repeats, crossing his arms over his chest.  “Weird, weird, weird.”  It disguises the little lurch in his stomach that the proposition gives him—honestly, other than Beka, he’s never tried to cultivate a relationship with someone for a reason other than needing something from them.  Some people have gotten to know him anyway (like Mila), but he’s never _tried_ with anyone else, is the point.  It’s weird.  If someone (well, not someone, because if it was just someone, he’d tell them to fuck off, so… if Beka, maybe) was to ask if he still hates Prince Katsuki at this moment, he’s… he’s not entirely sure what he would say anymore.

“I know,” Prince Katsuki laughs ruefully.  “Should… should we be getting back to the others, then?”

“I guess,” Yuri says.

They walk back side-by-side, a lot more calmly than when they left the picnic blanket, until they reach the others and plop back down.

“Is everything okay?” Mila asks, glancing back and forth between them both.

“Yeah,” Yuri says dismissively, while Prince Katsuki digs out his phone and goes through some messages or something.  Honestly, he’s still so put-together even after a conversation about … whatever the hell that was even about, it makes Yuri kind of annoyed again.

But that melts away, or at least it kind of does, when he looks back at Mila and Georgi and realizes that the looks on their faces, the ones they’ve been wearing for several seconds now, are full of relief.

* * *

 

[13:49] Yuuri:  
Minako-sensei thank you SO MUCH for the empathy and emotional projection training  
They’re really really REALLY coming in handy

* * *

 

[13:50] Yuuri:  
MARI TEENAGERS SHOULD NOT BE ALLOWED TO STRESS ME OUT THIS MUCH  
why!!! is!!!! talking to people!!!!! so hard!!!!!!  
ALSO apparently???? viktor has???????? called me CUTE??????????????????????

* * *

 

[13:51] Yuuri:  
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

[13:52] homobipboa:  
?

[13:52] Yuuri:  
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

* * *

 

The night of the engagement ball comes much sooner than Yuuri thought it would.  Part of the reason for that is probably that he spent all morning at the beach having a picnic, but it’s also just that his time in Ruthenia seems to have been going by both excruciatingly slowly (he’s only been here for a week) and terrifyingly fast (it’s been a week already?!).

He stands in front of the mirror and adjusts his suit one last time (it’s perfectly fitted already), checks that his hair isn’t falling out of place (as if it could, with how much gel is in it), and takes a deep breath.

“It’s just a party,” he mutters, half to himself, half to Mari, who’s video-chatting with him despite the late hour in Hinomoto.

“Yeah,” she agrees, shifting on her bed to get more comfortable.  “It’s just a party, and you’re gonna blow it out of the water, kiddo.  Make them all love you.  I know you can.”

“I mean, I definitely _can_ ,” Yuuri says wryly to cover up the knot of anxiety that’s taken up residence in the pit of his stomach and won’t leave.  “But I don’t think using magic is really the way to go tonight.”

Mari rolls her eyes from the screen, her voice from the speakers a little bit tinny.  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it, Yuuri,” she says.  Then she softens.  “Look.  It’s really easy to love you.  You’re a sweetheart, and I’m not just saying that because we’re related.  I mean it, okay?  Obviously not everyone is going to be close to you, they can’t love you like Mom and Dad and I do, but you’re good, okay?”

Yuuri blows out a breath.  “…Okay,” he says, shaky, uncertain, and determined to do his best anyway.  He is here to represent Hinomoto, and this is just a party.  He’s here to represent Hinomoto, and this is just a party.

A party where he’s going to mingle with the entirety of the Ruthenian Court, as in the _entirety_ of it, as opposed to the banquet, where after his introduction, he only had to deal with those he was seated with.

Just a party.

“Just a party,” Mari says, as if she’s reading his mind.  “Go out there, smile, have fun!  It’s a party!  Dance with Prince Viktor.  You’re engaged to him, he’d better give you a few dances!”

Yuuri laughs and hopes it doesn’t sound self-depreciating to his sister.  “Right,” he says.  “Right.  Engaged.  Dancing.  Okay.  Okay, I… I guess it’ll be okay.  I wish Minami could be here.”

Mari laughs tiredly.  “I know,” she says.  “It’s pretty shit timing that he had to come back here this week.  Kinda sucks that our ambassador to Ruthenia can’t be there for your engagement ball.  But a family emergency is a family emergency, so…”

“Yeah,” Yuuri sighs, resisting the urge to scrub at his face.  “I know.  I don’t begrudge him the trip, I just… wish he was here.  It’d be nice to have someone I know.”

“I know,” Mari says again.  “But even without him, you’re going to be fine.”

“I… hope so,” Yuuri sighs.  “I just feel like—”

There’s a sharp knock on the door.  It must be Viktor, he said he was going to come by before the ball began.

“I—I guess I have to go,” Yuuri says, picking his phone up in one hand as he heads to the door.  “Thank you for everything, Mari.”

“Good luck, Yuuri,” she answers, stifling a yawn.  “And good night.  Don’t hesitate to call if you need something, I’m leaving my phone ringer on…”

He pulls open the door just as he says “Good night, I love you,” and hangs up, just in time to see Viktor smiling down at him.

“Good evening, Yuuri!” he greets, chipper as ever.  “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything…?”

“No, no,” Yuuri shakes his head.  “I was just saying good night to my sister, that’s all.”

He lets himself take a moment to glance over his fiancé, noting the perfectly fitted suit, a deep magenta color with gold accents (it emphasizes his shoulders and the effortless grace with which he stands and also, um, who exactly allowed him to be that attractive?) and neatly swept-back hair.  There’s a flower in the customary buttonhole—at first glance Yuuri thinks it’s a daisy, but then common sense knocks him in the head and informs him that it’s chamomile.  Ruthenia’s national flower.

Viktor, still in the doorway, raises an eyebrow, amusement seeping into his voice.  “Yes?” he asks teasingly.  “You like what you see?”

Yuuri’s cheeks heat at an alarming rate.  “No no no—I mean!  Not that you’re _not_ attractive but I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t trying to stare or anything it’s just—you do look very nice, I’m sorry!  I just meant—”

Viktor tips his head back and laughs.  Yuuri looks away and bites his lip, partly because _he was staring that’s so embarrassing_ but also because Viktor in a nicely tailored suit and _laughing_ is…

Anyway.  Being engaged to a man who’s incredibly good-looking is definitely not the worst problem Yuuri could have right now. 

“You’re incredibly cute when you get flustered,” Viktor says, grinning, and Yuuri feels his face flush all over again.  He ducks his head and turns away, staring at his phone’s black screen and willing himself to stop being flustered (a task that’s much easier said than done, given that he was just told he’s “cute” when flustered).

“We should go,” he says a few seconds later, when he’s sure his voice is under control.

“Of course,” Viktor says, offering his arm.  “It wouldn’t do for us to be late to our own party, would it?”

“No,” Yuuri says, sliding his phone into his pocket and resisting the urge to run his hands through his hair.  He’s wearing contact lenses tonight, too, so his other nervous habit of constantly pushing his glasses up his nose constantly won’t work either, and it leaves him with a lot less things to fidget with than usual.  He lightly links his arm through Viktor’s instead, curling his hand around his forearm, and takes a deep breath.  “Let’s not.  The last thing I want to do is disappoint your mother.  She intimidates me a little bit.”

“She does that to people,” Viktor agrees as they start walking.  “But she’s not that bad, really.”

“I’m sure you’re incredibly impartial on the matter,” Yuuri says dryly.  “But I’ll take your word for it.  I’m sure she’s delightful, once you get to know her.”

“She is,” Viktor assures him.  “And you’ll see for yourself!  You’ll be getting to know her, after all.  I know the wedding is still several months off, but you _are_ going to be her son-in-law, and living with us, so she’s definitely going to want to know you.”

“Oh,” Yuuri says faintly.  “How charming.”

They reach the huge double doors into the ballroom before Yuuri realizes it, and he has to quickly smother his hesitance as they approach, because Viktor shows no sign of slowing down and Yuuri refuses to let himself hold them both back, just because he’s terrified.  If Viktor notices the way Yuuri’s hand tightens on his arm as the announcement of their arrival echoes in the ballroom just beyond the doors, he gives no indication.

_“His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Viktor Nikiforov, and His Royal Highness, Prince Katsuki Yuuri of Hinomoto,”_ the herald calls, voice ringing.  Yuuri feels his throat start to close a little bit and swallows hard.

“Viktor,” he mumbles, keeping his eyes forward because it’s a lot easier than trying to make eye contact now.  “Can, ah, can I ask a kind of personal favor?”

The doormen on the inside of the ballroom begin to pull the ornate doors open.  Light spills through the widening crack between them and spills over Yuuri and Viktor, standing together and framed by the impressive entryway.

“Of course,” Viktor murmurs back. “What is it?”

There’s no time to explain, not really, not when they’re already starting to walk forward, so Yuuri just squeaks out a _sorry_ and drops the outer layer of his empathic barriers.  It lets him reach out until the edges of his probing consciousness brush against Viktor’s, and he knows Viktor feels it because he inhales sharply—a miniscule sound, really only noticeable because they’re walking down the steps together, arm in arm.  He feels guilty, but Viktor did say _of course_ , and right now, Viktor is exuding confidence and calm, two things Yuuri feels he’s really lacking.  So he just lets those two emotions wash over him like warm sunshine and a cool breeze, and suddenly his anxiety’s grip on him is looser.

He manages to loosen his deathgrip on Viktor’s arm as they reach the landing in the center of the staircase, breathing more easily and smiling more genuinely out at the assembled nobility.  He walks as though he’s floating, keeping the image of dancing ( _light, lithe, graceful_ ) in his mind, and even manages to nod to a few people as they reach the ground level.

The dance floor is cleared for the two of them—it’s their engagement ball, so they have the opening dance, traditionally a stately waltz.  Music swells as they make their way to the center of the floor as a unit, and Yuuri closes his eyes and thinks of the airy, light, open feeling he gets from dancing in Minako’s studio when the sunlight streams in through the windows and he can hear birds chirping in the gardens outside and everything just seems to flow together in a perfect harmony.

Since Yuuri is the newcomer to the Ruthenian court and Viktor is the heir to its throne, protocol dictates that for the opening dance, Viktor leads.  Yuuri steps into frame easily, shoulders down, head back, and arms firm and square.  One hand rests on Viktor’s bicep, the other wraps around his palm, and he raises his chin.

Technically, for standard dances like the waltz, the follower is supposed to keep their gaze over their left hand.  But this isn’t a technique drill with Minako, this is the opening dance of his engagement ball, so Yuuri supposes it’s alright that he makes eye contact, newly-borrowed confidence still washing over him like a soothing wave, and smiles warmly up at his fiancé.

Viktor is still wearing that small smile from earlier, but it grows a little fonder when Yuuri catches his eye.  Then he sucks in a breath and flows from one foot to the other, and Yuuri follows effortlessly as Viktor leads him into a spin turn as they sweep their way around the dance floor, strains of music surrounding them like a comforting embrace.  Yuuri feels most like himself when he dances.

They’re turning around the first corner in a promenade walk when Yuuri leans in a little closer than is technically correct and murmurs, “Sorry about earlier.”

“Earlier?” Viktor asks, stepping out of promenade into a simple reverse turn, perhaps to make conversation easier.

“I didn’t warn you before borrowing some confidence,” he explains, closing his eyes to enjoy the music more fully as they twirl around through a series of spin turns again.  Viktor is taller than him and therefore takes wider steps, so it’s a little bit of a stretch, but it’s a good one, and Yuuri has to admit he’s missed dancing since arriving here.  Perhaps he should set about finding out if there’s a small dance studio he could use to practice.

“Ah,” Viktor murmurs.  “That’s alright.  I did give you permission beforehand, I suppose.  Though… if you need to do it again, more warning _would_ be nice.”

Yuuri opens his eyes, oddly touched that Viktor is fine with him possibly needing to do it again.  “Of course,” he answers.  “Sorry I didn’t ask sooner.  I should have.”

“It’s alright,” Viktor assures him as they stop twirling for a moment for Yuuri to lean into a turn.  “No harm done.”

After their first dance, the spell is broken, and the stillness and the silence that had directed all eyes to the two of them disappear.  They stay on the floor a little longer, for a fast waltz and a foxtrot after that, but after three dances back to back, they’re both breathless and in need of a break.

Viktor leads Yuuri to the edge of the floor before finally letting go of of his hand, both of their faces still flushed from the exertion of dancing and glowing from the joy of it.

“I’m going to go get something to drink,” Yuuri says, and Viktor nods.

“I think I’m being summoned,” he says, and Yuuri follows his gaze to see an unfamiliar (and kind of grumpy-looking) man waving from near the wall.  “Enjoy the refreshments!”

Viktor weaves his way deftly through the assembled crowd, his silver head bobbing further away from Yuuri, and Yuuri turns away to watch the dancers for a moment.  It’s another waltz now, a fast one, and they’re all whirling past in a flurry of colors and movement that’s almost dizzying to watch from the outside.  It’s a little intoxicating, and he almost wants to throw himself back out there because if he’s dancing his heart out, he doesn’t have to worry about mingling with people of the court, but of course that’s something he really can’t afford to avoid.

Smiling ruefully to himself, Yuuri turns away from the dance floor and starts to make his way toward the refreshment tables.  It’s warm in here—or rather, he’s just been dancing a lot, and he’s hot—and a glass of chilled fruit juice sounds absolutely divine right now.

 “Prince Katsuki!” someone calls, and Yuuri whips around to find Lady Babicheva grinning at him.

“Good evening!” he greets, smiling.  His face is probably still all flushed and pink from dancing.  But oh well; there’s not much he can do about that.  “It’s nice to see you again.  You look nice!”

“Thank you, Prince Katsuki!” she laughs, stepping closer so they don't have to shout to be heard over the music.  “You dance beautifully.”

“Ah, thank you,” Yuuri says, fighting down the bashfulness and hoping he sounds gracious instead.  He glances at the dance floor again and considers it for a moment.  He's not really _that_ thirsty; he just needed a break to catch his breath for a few seconds, that's all. He looks back to Lady Babicheva. “Would you like to dance? After this one ends, I mean?”

Lady Babicheva’s face lights up. “I would love to!” she exclaims, grabbing his hands. “You both looked lovely out there, you know.  Are you enjoying yourself so far?”

Yuuri considers that, considers the rush of dancing with Viktor and the exhilaration of feeling the music thrum through his body, the swirl of emotions dancing with him as he spun and twirled and stepped and smiled. 

“Yes,” he says.  “Yes, I am.”

He dances with Lady Babicheva for a while, until both of them stumble off the floor, laughing and needing to catch their breaths.  Eventually she hands him off to Lord Popovich, and while he’s less openly exuberant than Lady Babicheva, Yuuri still enjoys dancing with him, too.  He makes pleasant conversation and has a firm lead, something Yuuri appreciates when following.

Time flies by, and he mingles and dances with more people than he can keep track of—that’s a Duke Vinogradov, there’s a Lord Yakov, as well as Viktor again, briefly, and there’s a Lady Golovkina, and plenty more—until he’s breathless and pretty sure he’s been dancing for at _least_ an hour straight, save for breaks to switch partners, and really, really could use that fruit juice right about now.

He’s making his way purposefully towards the refreshment tables when (again, of course) someone calls his name, and he turns, gracious smile already plastered on his face, to the stern-looking, middle-aged man waiting for him with a pinched expression.

“Hello,” he greets, hoping he doesn’t sound as breathless and exhausted as he feels.  “Good evening, ah…”

“May I have a word, Your Highness?” the man asks, and Yuuri furiously tries to place a name to his face.  “Privately.  There are alcoves this way, if you’d be so kind as to follow me…”

He doesn’t want to give his name as politeness would demand and he wants to speak privately.  The exhilaration of dancing is promptly forgotten as unease prickles at the back of Yuuri’s neck, and he opens his mind slightly to see if he can sense any emotions that might give him an idea of what to expect here.  But whoever this nobleman is, his mind is well-guarded.  Yuuri hesitates for a second longer, glancing around the ballroom nervously, but it’s not like he _really_ has any allies he can make eye contact with to beg _save me_ , so…

“Of course,” he hears himself say, catching Prince Plisetsky’s eye across the room.  Plisetsky narrows his eyes and scowls, but then he recognizes who Yuuri is talking to, apparently, because his eyes widen slightly as if he’s _alarmed_.  He vanishes into the crowd not a moment later, and Yuuri, helplessly bound by the rules of etiquette, follows the mysterious nobleman.

Off to one side of the ballroom is a secluded hall, lined with curtained alcoves precisely for speaking privately.  The nobleman leads Yuuri into one of these and closes the curtains, so that it’s just the two of them in the dimly-illuminated booth.  The swells of music from outside are muted now, and Yuuri has to consciously try not to tap his foot anxiously.

“So, Prince Katsuki,” the other man says, and Yuuri steels himself to break in politely.

“Ah, I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” he says, smiling apologetically.  “I don’t think we’ve been introduced yet, sir.”

The pinched expression twists just slightly, as if the man bit into a lemon but is trying to hide it.  “Oh, where are my manners?  I’m Lord Ivanovich,” he says.  “Now, as I was saying…”

Ivanovich.  Yuuri knows that name, from his study of Ruthenia’s court.  Ivanovich—he’s the head of one of the factions most known for opposing Queen Nikiforova when possible.  The sense of unease prickling at Yuuri’s senses grows.  He’s not in friendly territory here.

“I’ll be blunt,” Lord Ivanovich says.  “How much would I have to pay you to make you call it off and go back?”

“ _Excuse me?”_   Yuuri recoils sharply, frowning as he crosses his arms.  “Are you implying that I or by extension Hinomoto would be susceptible to _bribery_?”

Lord Ivanovich snorts.  “Look, kid,” he says, and Yuuri bristles just a little bit—he doesn’t like being patronized, thank you very much—“I think both of us can tell that you were manhandled into getting engaged.  I can offer you a way out.  Send you back home, to a place where you belong.”

_A place where you belong._  What is it with these Ruthenians and telling him he doesn’t fit in here?  He’s _noticed_ , thanks.

The worst part is that Yuuri almost wants to think about it, for one tantalizing moment.  He thinks about Hasetsu Castle and his parents and Mari and Minako and stargazing from the garden maze, and for just a moment, he wants to take the coward’s way out.

Then he snaps out of it, absolutely disgusted with himself for even considering such a dishonorable thing.

“Lord Ivanovich,” he says, disguising the frustrated tears behind a layer of frosty anger and frigid politeness, “if you are trying to insinuate that I would want to infringe on the honor of the word of the Katsuki family purely for my own personal gain, I think I take offense.”

“Ah, right,” Lord Ivanovich sighs to himself.  “They always did say Hinomoto was full of people with too much national pride.”

Yuuri has to remind himself to breathe and remain calm.  This conversation is rapidly becoming one he doesn’t want to be in.  What would Mari do in this situation?  Or Minako?  Someone openly offering bribes to a prince in order to influence international politics shouldn’t go covered up, so he’ll have to tell someone after this…

“Was the entire point of you pulling me aside to speak in private to insult my family and country of origin?” he asks, pressing his lips together into a firm, disapproving line.  “Or was there something else?”

“I would wager half my inheritance that you’re trying to think about how to expose the corruption in my dealings,” Lord Ivanovich says, studying Yuuri closely.  He steeples his fingers and leans forward over the table, just a little, but enough to make Yuuri want to withdraw.  “Things aren’t like they are in Hinomoto here.  You want to know some of the rules of the game?  Fine.  As it stands, right now, I have done nothing illegal.  You can’t touch me through any of those channels.  But in case I didn’t make it clear enough, I don’t think this alliance is good for Ruthenia.  Our interests should not lie in the East.  And I will do whatever it takes to help my beloved country back to the right path.”

_Whatever it takes._   Yuuri’s blood runs cold.  Surely that doesn’t mean…

“What are you implying?” he asks carefully, grateful for the dim light and the table that hides the way his hands are gripping at his knees, white-knuckled probably.

“You really do need it stated out explicitly, huh?” Ivanovich snorts.  “Consider it this way.  I still think you and I could work together, could get you home again.  That’s my goal.  But if you’re determined to keep the alliance deal, then, you seem like a decent kid, but you can consider me your first official enemy in the Ruthenian court.  And if you get in my way, well… I’m sure we’ve all heard stories about what can go wrong if you mess with the wrong people in Ruthenia.”

“Is that—”  This is a stupid question.  Of _course_ that’s a threat.  What else would it be?  Small talk?  That’s definitely a threat, a “stay out of my way or I can have you killed” in pretty explicit words.  Fear runs down Yuuri’s spine—he’s alone, he’s so very alone in Ruthenian court, and those cold, grey eyes across the table are boring holes into him.  This man genuinely believes he’s doing the right thing, and that’s honestly terrifying. 

Before Yuuri can say anything in response, though, the curtain is suddenly yanked aside to reveal Prince Plisetsky and a tall, severe-looking woman that Yuuri doesn’t recognize.  Relief floods through him, now that he’s not alone with Ivanovich.

“Lord Ivanovich,” she greets coolly.

“Duchess Baranovskaya,” he responds.  “Enchanting, as always.  To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I’m afraid I’m not here for you, actually,” Duchess Baranovskaya says, turning her piercing gaze to Yuuri.  “Prince Katsuki, if I may have a word?  I’m terribly sorry to steal you from what must be a riveting conversation, but this is urgent.”

Her voice drips steely authority as she coldly ignores Ivanovich’s protest of _we weren’t done talking,_ stepping pointedly aside until Yuuri stands and trails after her, cold, nauseating dread eating at him from his core.  What’s so urgent that one of the highest ranked members of the Queen’s Court is seeking him out, urgent enough that she tears him out of a private conversation with another member of the court?  Did something happen?  Did he do something?

Whatever it is, Duchess Baranovskaya doesn’t seem keen on providing answers while walking.  She silently leads them down the line of curtains, and Prince Plisetsky follows, bringing up the rear as if they’re some kind of ridiculous parade procession going from one alcove to another.

As soon as they’re seated, Duchess Baranovskaya turns that sharp, terrifying gaze down on Yuuri again.  “What did he want from you?” she asks.

Yuuri hesitates.

Prince Plisetsky snorts.  “You can trust Duchess Lilia,” he says as if Yuuri is stupid for not knowing that, as if it’s common knowledge.  “She works closely with the Queen.”

“He told me he wants me to leave Ruthenia and go back to Hinomoto,” Yuuri says after a moment.  “Um, and that he was willing to pay me to get me to agree to break off the engagement and therefore the alliance.” 

_And that he might get me killed if I resist his manipulation_ , he doesn’t add.  Baranovskaya probably knows Ivanovich well enough to assume the threat was given anyway.  He’s safer leaving it implicit, for now; he doesn’t know the layout of the court well enough to know who he can trust yet, and making an accusation as serious as “he threatened my life, the life of a foreign dignitary and someone betrothed into the royal family” could carry serious repercussions, particularly if Ivanovich is good enough at playing the game that nothing could be traced back to him, which Yuuri doesn’t doubt he is.  Prince Plisetsky might vouch for Duchess Baranovskaya, but Yuuri doesn’t know her well enough to judge for himself yet whether he can count her as an ally or not.  Hell, he hardly even knows Prince Plisetsky!

Duchess Baranovskaya nods, mostly to herself.  “I see,” she says.  “Yuri, handle him.”  Then she rises to her feet and sweeps imperiously from the alcove, leaving Yuuri with Prince Plisetsky, who scowls at him.

“Why do I have to be stuck with you?” he complains.  “Come on, stupid.  Might as well go back to the actual party instead of sitting here.”

“I _really_ need something to drink,” Yuuri mutters.  He’s gotten interrupted in his quest for a beverage enough tonight, goddammit.  That whole conversation was _stressful_ though, so when he and Prince Plisetsky finally get to the refreshments table, Yuuri drinks some juice but also pauses, eyeing one of the fruity mixed drinks advertised at the bar.  Or even a shot.  Or a few shots.

He _is_ pretty stressed, after all.  Just a little alcohol ought to take the edge off his nerves and let him go back to smiling and dancing with everyone like he did earlier.  This is a great idea, really.

“Really?” Prince Plisetsky asks skeptically.  Yuuri just shrugs at him and knocks back the glass in his hand.

A few minutes later, he regrets it because oh _wow_ that was stronger than he realized it would be, and he’s going to be a bit more drunk than he meant to be, and _whoops shit_ being actually drunk is no good at a ball.  Well—he’s not going to be really _drunk_ ; it’s more tipsy.  It’s easy to tell because as the burning in his throat slowly decreases, the fear and anxiety are calmer and everything just seems _funny_ , and—

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Prince Plisetsky mutters.

“Prince Yuri!” Yuuri beams, alcohol already making him more friendly.  “I want to dance some more.  Dance with me?”

Prince Plisetsky glares at him.  “Hell no.”

“Just _one_ dance?” Yuuri wheedles, reaching for his hands.  “Pleeease?  It’d be fun, and you’d be doing me a favor…”

“I already did you a favor getting Duchess Lilia to get that fuckwad away from you,” Prince Plisetsky huffs, but he doesn’t pull away when Yuuri starts tugging him toward the dance floor.  “I’m only going along with this because the queen would yell at me if I made a scene by turning you down.  Just _one dance_ , you hear me?”

“Loud and clear!” Yuuri promises.  Then he smiles and adds conspiratorially, “I would just rather dance with you because Ruthenian liquor is stronger than I thought it’d be and it’s better to dance with friends when you’re buzzed than strangers, you know?”  He pauses.  “I feel like I have no filter right now.”

Prince Plisetsky scowls darkly, more darkly than any sixteen-year-old really should.  His face is still too tiny and cute and it’s not intimidating at all, not when Yuuri is pleasantly tipsy.  “Who the hell told you we’re friends?”

Yuuri just laughs.  “Come on!  Let’s go dance.”

For all his supposed reluctance, Prince Plisetsky gets really into dancing with Yuuri.  It’s _fun_ —fun in a totally different way than dancing with Viktor was at the beginning of the ball, and doesn’t _that_ seem like it was ages ago?  Prince Plisetsky is a really good dancer, though, even when he steals the lead from Yuuri and forces him to switch frame to put himself in follower’s position.

After the second song, Prince Plisetsky seems to realize that it has, in fact, been more than one song.  He all but drags the two of them from the floor and glares daggers.

“I’m going to go find Mila,” he announces.  “Stay put, if you’re still drunk.  Idiot.”

“I’m not drunk,” Yuuri promises. “Just a little tipsy.  And dancing helps burn through the alcohol, don’t worry!”

The look Prince Plisetsky gives him can only be described as pure exasperation.  “Just—stay here and wait until I get back,” he sighs, and then dodges and weaves through the crowd.  Yuuri watches him go and scans everyone, looking for familiar faces, and brightens as soon as he sees the back of Viktor’s silvery head.  Viktor is familiar, and Viktor is a friend!  Prince Plisetsky asked him to stay put, but standing around alone at his own engagement ball is an invitation to be approached, and that’s no good when he’s a few shades past tipsy, so he should go to his friends.  Friends!  Friends are great.

Viktor is talking to Lord Popovich right now.  Yuuri waves at his picnic buddy as he approaches, and Lord Popovich smiles at him over Viktor’s shoulder just before Yuuri reaches them.  He places his hand on his fiancé’s shoulder and wraps his other arm around his waist, laughing to himself when Viktor stiffens in surprise.

“Yuuri?” he asks, amusement coloring his voice as he turns in Yuuri’s arms.  “Hello there.”

“Hi,” Yuuri says cheerfully.  “Please help me, I am more drunk than I meant to be and I’m probably going to do something really stupid if nobody stops me.  I only meant to get a little bit tipsy but _wow!_ That was really strong!  Normally I’m a lot better at holding my alcohol than this, you know?”

Viktor is very obviously trying to stifle laughter.  He exchanges amused glances with Lord Popovich and wraps his arm around Yuuri’s waist, and Yuuri happily leans into his side, humming.  That’s okay, he figures.  He _knows_ he gets a lot more clingy and affectionate when there’s alcohol in his system, but they’re _engaged!_ So this should be okay.

Viktor touches his cheek to guide his gaze back up to his face instead of distantly over his shoulder.  “What kind of helping you am I supposed to be doing here?” he asks, amusement dancing in his eyes.  They’re very nice eyes.

Yuuri laughs.  “You could dance with me some more,” he suggests, beaming up at him.  “By the way, you have _really_ blue eyes.  Did you know that?  They are _super_ blue.  Wow.”

Viktor gives up and laughs out loud.  Yuuri likes that sound.  “Are you sure you’re only tipsy?” he asks.  “Can you even dance in this state?”

“I’m only tipsy, I promise!” Yuuri exclaims.  “The room is not spinning!  It’s just when I get even a little bit drunk, I tend to lose my filter and just say stupid things as soon as I think of them.  It’s why I need help, see, you have to keep me away from anyone I could say something _really_ stupid to.”

“That’s sound logic,” Viktor agrees, detaching himself from Yuuri and then taking his hand to lead him to the dance floor.  “It looks like duty calls, Georgi!  We can talk later, yes?”

“Oh, yeah, of course,” says Lord Popovich, smiling.  “I think I will go talk to Anya in the meantime.  Maybe I too should get a little liquid courage and then just take the plunge, hm?”

“I’m not so sure she’d appreciate it if you were _drunk_ ,” Viktor shrugs, “but hey, what do I know.  Go for it, I wish you the best of luck!”

This time when he dances with Yuuri, Viktor is the follower, and Yuuri gleefully twirls and guides and dips him as the music calls for it.  Viktor laughs, too, actually laughs, instead of wearing that serene, cool, fake smile from earlier, and Yuuri thinks that the real smile and laugh is _so much nicer_ that the combination of both of them almost makes him forget what drove him to drink in the first place.

Ivanovich is his first real enemy in the Ruthenian court.

That’s not a pleasant thought.  He… he can think about it later.

Right now, he dips Viktor backward over his arm and beams down at him, and Viktor beams back, and just for the moment, Yuuri lets himself pretend that this is all that matters.

* * *

[00:42] Unknown number:  
you JERK i told you to stay put! do you have any idea how worried mila was when we couldn’t find you?  
she thought ivanovich abducted you again!  
but noooooo you and viktor were just being idiots. why am i even surprised!!

[01:38] Yuuri:  
prince plisetsky????  
who gave u my number????????

[01:43] Yuri Plisetsky:  
are you that drunk or something??  
three guesses. hint: he’s an idiot

[01:44] Yuuri:  
ohhhhh.  
he’s a sweet idiot though :)

[01:45] Yuri Plisetsky:  
holy shit stop right there do not make me block you

[01:45] Yuuri:  
what did i do???

[01:45] Yuri Plisetsky:  
just. do not talk about him. at all.

[01:46] Yuuri:  
ok………  
i’m going to go to bed now! thank you for your help tonight. good night!

[01:46] Yuri Plisetsky:  
yea whatever go to sleep already so i don’t have to talk to u

* * *

 

“Oh, _Makkachin_ ,” Viktor sighs, dreamy smile firmly in place as he lies in bed that night, staring up at the dark ceiling.  “Makkachin, that was _so fun_.  I don’t know what to do with myself now, I don’t think I’ve had such a good time at one of these parties in _years_!”

Makkachin whuffs softly, tail thumping against the sheets.  He probably just wants Viktor to shut up and let him sleep already, considering that it’s nearly two in the morning.  Viktor laughs and pets his head.

“Makkachin, Makkachin… you don’t think it would be that bad if I _did_ fall for him, right?” he asks curiously.  “We are engaged, after all…”

Makkachin, of course, does not have a coherent reply, considering that he is just a big, beautiful puppy and does not have much of an investment in Viktor’s love life, so long as he continues to get love and treats.  That’s a lifestyle Viktor can respect.

“He keeps making me smile, you know,” he tells his dog, closing his eyes to relive the feeling of Yuuri whirling him about the dance floor.  He’d been so caught up in the moment that he had hardly even noticed that many couples left the floor to give them room again, because apparently tipsy Yuuri is just as good of a dancer as sober Yuuri, and it’s _impossible_ to not want to watch him.

It’s really not fair.  He’s so spellbinding.

And Viktor is engaged to him, and Viktor is going to see him tomorrow, and the day after, and pretty much every day from here on out.

“I,” he tells Makkachin, “am going to sleep now, and I really, really hope I dream about dancing with him.  I don’t think I’ve dreamt about something so nice in a long time, Makkachin.”

Makkachin doesn’t answer, probably because Makkachin is already asleep.  Viktor laughs to himself and figures he probably ought to follow suit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah ok yuri he sure was calm and collected after that conversation at the beach. mhm whatever u say
> 
> ANYWAY, a few notes again:
> 
> 1\. HOO BOY okay my life went to hell in a handbasket last week, by which i mean there was a death in the family on top of my mental health taking a nosedive off a cliff for unrelated reasons. due to that plus midterms this week, i have barely started on chapter five, so... again, i'm really going to try to have it out by next tuesday, but YIKES. so in the meantime have this extra long whopper of a chapter while i attempt to sort out what the hell is going on in my personal life! 
> 
> 2\. worldbuilding note - i used the word “car” because there was nowhere to explain this really + the etymology of car comes from the term "carriage", but let it be noted that not all cars have motors in this ‘verse and fancypants nobles tend to use magic-powered ones instead of motorized bc motors are for those who cant afford magical craftsmanship.
> 
> 3\. to everyone who's left a comment, thank you all so much!!! i'm so happy youre enjoying this little story so far, and i'm really excited for where it's going. your feedback is very valued and appreciated!! i'm glad so many of you are liking the magic + tech combo, i love writing it! i hope you also liked this chapter.
> 
> 3.5. just curious, sometimes i like to have mood music going as i write. would anyone be interested in me mentioning what songs i used to help myself set the scenes? for example, the ballroom scene was all written with [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=csZj-jRds38) playing.
> 
> next time: it's smooth sailing, moving to a new court, until it's not. or, the storm on the horizon arrives.


	5. when you're caught in a landslide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri reunites with an old friend, falls prey to his own insecurities, and has some revelations on the nature of trust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a panic attack during the chapter!

Over the next month or so, Yuuri settles into a comfortable enough routine.  His mornings are spent representing Hinomoto in Ruthenian international court—his position as a foreign prince betrothed to the royal family is similar to that of an ambassador, with a few key differences.  Hinomoto additionally has a representative, real ambassador, who was out of the country during Yuuri’s arrival but who Yuuri is delighted to finally see again.

“Prince Yuuri!” cries Lord Ambassador Minami Kenjirou, running forward to clasp Yuuri in a tight hug that’s so enthusiastic it nearly knocks him over backwards into Viktor.  Yuuri laughs, though, hugging him back gladly.  It’s a relief to see a familiar face out here!

“Hi, Kenjirou,” he greets when they pull apart, smiling.  “It’s good to see you again.  It’s been a long time!”

“It has!” Kenjirou agrees, absolutely beaming.  He keeps a hold on Yuuri’s hands as he turns to Viktor and adds, “It’s a pleasure to see you, too, Your Royal Highness!”

“The pleasure is mine, as always, Ambassador Minami,” Viktor assures.  He looks back and forth betweeh Kenjirou and Yuuri, eyebrows raised.  “So, you two know each other?”

“Ah, yes,” Yuuri says, smiling when Kenjirou squeezes his hands excitedly.  “We took some classes together when we were younger, and we’ve kept in touch to some degree over the years.”

“Prince Yuuri often helped me with my homework,” Kenjirou laughs, finally letting go of Yuuri.  “I’m so sorry I couldn’t be here for your welcome celebrations,” he adds, contrite, and Yuuri shakes his head quickly.

“A family emergency is a family emergency, Kenjirou,” he assures, wide-eyed as he shakes his head.  “It’s completely understandable that you weren’t here!  I’m just relieved your mother is alright.”

Kenjirou’s smile fades slightly, a troubled look in his eyes. “Yes,” he says, more subdued. “Me too.  We were all very worried for a while there.”  But he brightens again quickly, adding, “But she's expected to make a full recovery, barring any complications!”

“That's a relief,” says Yuuri.  He pauses, glancing back up at Viktor, and then asks, “Are you busy right now, Kenjirou?  Viktor and I were going to go out for lunch, if you'd like to join us.”

“I would love to come, but maybe another time would be better,” Kenjirou says regretfully.  “There are still a few things I need to take care of today, in light of that trip and everything.  Thank you for the invitation, though, Prince Yuuri!”

“Oh, of course!” Yuuri smiles back.  “Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you, alright?”

Kenjirou grabs his hands and squeezes them tightly again.  “You’ve always been so kind,” he says cheerfully.  “I will.  I have to go now, but I just wanted to greet you as soon as I could.  I hope you both have a good time at lunch!”

“Alright,” Yuuri says, squeezing back.  “See you later!”

“It was nice seeing you, Ambassador Minami,” Viktor adds, draping his arm around Yuuri’s shoulders.  “We’ll get going now, then!”

After saying their goodbyes, Yuuri and Viktor head out for their lunch.  Normally, they don’t go out—what’s the need, with a palace that has a fully equipped and staffed kitchen?—but Viktor said he wanted to show Yuuri around Petersburg some more, so they’re taking the afternoon for that.

Letting Viktor lead the way, Yuuri glances up at him curiously.  “So,” he says.  “Where are we going?”

“Lots of places!” Viktor says cheerfully. “You were there in court this morning, you saw how annoyed Ivanovich and Miloslavskaya got with me.  I think it’ll be nice for us to avoid this place for a while!  They’re all so negative.  Such drags.”

…Right.  Yuuri nods silently and contemplates the man at his side, wearing a completely different smile than the one he had in the royal courtroom.  In court, it’s easy to see how he gained the reputation of having an icy, uncaring heart—he’s so _cold_ , Yuuri thinks.  To everyone.  It’s like he becomes a totally different person than the fun-loving and gentle one Yuuri has gotten to know.

Which kind of makes him wonder if gentle Viktor is how Viktor would prefer to be, and court just forced him to be cold, or if cold Viktor puts on a gentle mask because he knows that it would be the easiest way to get to Yuuri?

With most people, he would just assume the worst case scenario—here, the latter possibility—and move on from the fretting.  But it’s different with Viktor, because they’re engaged.  Yuuri _wants_ to be able to trust him.  His parents had an arranged marriage, albeit one with domestic benefits rather than international, but they grew to love each other deeply anyway, and perhaps he’s too idealistic, but he’d _like_ to have a marriage like that himself.  A lot.

It’s just hard, never knowing if he can actually trust the people around him, never being sure whether he’s just a pawn to them or not.  It’s also very tiring.  Empathy definitely helps him figure out true motivations, but it’s only really effective around those never trained to counter it.  Most people at courts have that training.

“I’m surprised we have the free time to go out and wander town all day,” Yuuri remarks, keeping his tone light and conversational.  Even if he’s internally confused about the nature of trust, he can’t let that bleed over into their day. 

Viktor laughs. “Of course we do!” he says, as if it should have been obvious.  “Don’t you think it’s important for us to build a strong relationship so that we can present a united front later, as king and consort?”

“I guess so,” Yuuri supposes, stuffing his uncertainty into a bottle and tossing it away into the darker recesses of his mind, where it will undoubtedly age like a fine wine and be all the more potent when he stumbles upon it again.  Part of him really wants to pull Viktor aside and say _look, I think we need to have a frank conversation about trust before this can go anywhere_ , but he hesitates.  Doesn’t do it. 

He’s not really that sure why not, either.  It just… it feels pointless, in a way.  He’s not sure how much of his doubt rises from legitimate concern as opposed to his anxiety, and until he can sort that out in his head, he doesn’t want to bring it up, not with the risk of having to bring up having an anxiety disorder.  He still doesn’t feel ready to have that conversation.

And that reminds him… His pills are running low, too. 

Yuuri bites his lip and lets Viktor pull him along to the first of their many destinations for the day.  He’ll have to deal with all of this soon.  Soon, but not yet.

“By the way,” Viktor says, too nonchalantly to be casual.  When Yuuri glances up at him, his eyes are steely and cool.  “A little bird told me Lord Ivanovich approached you at the ball last month.  I expected that, but I’ve been meaning to ask, has he said anything else to you?”

“Define ‘anything else’,” Yuuri says carefully.  “He and I have had a few civil interactions between then and now, but I wouldn’t say he ever told me anything he didn’t tell me the night of the ball itself.”

Lord Ivanovich: just another of the many problems Yuuri has to keep track of and continue to juggle.  That threat isn’t one he plans to take lightly, either—depending on the manner in which he might die, it could have serious consequences for the alliance.  If it even looks like foul play was involved in the death of their second prince, Hinomoto would be very likely to mistrust Ruthenia, possibly to the extent of abandoning the alliance in return for allowing Yuuri to be killed, and the authority of the Nikiforov family would be undermined, because Yuuri would have been assassinated while under their protection, which would reflect badly on them.

In that way, maybe he ought to tell Viktor that Ivanovich more or less outright threatened to have him killed.  He might not know yet if he can trust Viktor with his anxiety-related problems or anything personal, but it should be safe to trust him with his life, amusingly enough.  Then again, Viktor probably already knows that that was more or less implied.  It seems like under-the-table death threats might be a given in Ruthenian dealings.

“Is something troubling you?” Viktor asks, as if he can tell Yuuri is debating whether to bring this very matter up with him.  It’s uncanny enough that Yuuri has to double-check that he’s not projecting his emotions subconsciously.

He chews on his lip in thought for a moment, fretting, and then finally takes a deep breath.  “I suppose I just have a tendency to worry,” he says.

That sharp gaze narrows.  Yuuri can definitely see a resemblance to the Queen.  “Worry about what?” Viktor asks.  “About what Ivanovich said about paying you off to send you back to Hinomoto?”

“Not exactly, no,” Yuuri hedges.  “More about the part where he… well, you know.  If he was to have me killed, it would reflect badly on you and your mother, and it would also, more than likely, severely undermine the alliance, considering the fact that my presence here is supposed to signify the trust between our countries.”

Viktor gives him an unreadable look, eyes stormy.  “If he was to have you killed?” he repeats, and there is chilly steel in his voice now, too, but his arm around Yuuri’s shoulders remains a comforting weight. 

“Assassination is always a possibility,” Yuuri says awkwardly, keeping his gaze straight ahead.  “You know that.”

“I do,” Viktor agrees.  Yuuri risks a glance up at him and sees that he has the same icy expression he wears in court, looking out over the courtyard they’re walking through.  “Did he threaten you?”

“Not _really,_ ” Yuuri says, and then sighs because that’s not entirely true.  “I mean… sort of.  He didn’t try to blackmail me, if that’s what you mean.  He’s just tried to intimidate me, more than anything.”

“No—Yuuri,” Viktor sighs shortly, running his other hand through his hair.  He stops walking, and Yuuri stops too, confused, as Viktor turns to face him and places both hands on his shoulders.  “Yuuri, I’m not asking all this to find out what the political issues are.  I already know those things, I don’t need to find out from you.”

Yuuri can _feel_ himself crumpling internally— _I don’t need to find out from you, you’re telling me things I already know, you’re wasting my time_ —and valiantly struggles to force himself to push the self-doubt and all its awful whispers away.  Still, he can’t quite meet Viktor’s eyes, staring at a point over his shoulder instead.  “Then… why _are_ you asking?”

Viktor gives him a funny look, as if he’s surprised Yuuri is asking him that question.  “I want to know if you’re alright, of course,” he says, and his fingers skim down Yuuri’s arms until they find Yuuri’s hands.  He takes Yuuri’s hands gently, far more gently than Yuuri expected him to after how coldly angry he looked just seconds ago, and strokes his thumbs over the backs of Yuuri’s knuckles.

“I’m asking,” he adds, “because I can find out all the political things I need to know from Lilia, but you’re the only one who can tell me about the Yuuri things.”

Yuuri’s brain chooses this moment to conveniently short-circuit and fizzle out.

“Oh,” he manages.  “I, um… I’m fine?”

Viktor presses his lips together, dissatisfied.  “I feel like you’re lying.”

The breath catches in Yuuri’s throat.  What is he supposed to say?  There are far too many things going on in his mind for him to pick just _one_ , and it’s all so highly personal, and Viktor probably doesn’t actually want to hear _all of it_ …

“But,” Viktor continues, when Yuuri doesn’t say anything and just stares at him like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle, “if you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine.  I won’t force you.”

He sounds disappointed.  Yuuri considers telling him _no, see, it’s not that I don’t ever want to tell you, it’s that you need to give me prior notice before asking me to talk about personal things so that I can figure out what I want to say and how to say it instead of freezing up, like this.  I can give you a form to fill out for that, I’ll need it forty-eight hours before a personal conversation is instigated…_

“Thank you,” he manages instead, finding his voice.  “For giving me time.  I… don’t know what to say right now.”

Viktor smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“Can I ask you something?” he says.

Yuuri nods, because what else is he supposed to do?  He can’t just say _no, go away_ or something, despite how alarmed this conversation has him.

“When we first met,” Viktor says, “you told me you wanted me to be myself, that’s all.  Is that still true?”

“Yes,” Yuuri says immediately, relief coursing through him.  That’s probably the one question he has a definite answer to—it will always be _yes_.  He wants nothing more than for Viktor to be as genuine as possible with him; people trying to be something they are not never ends well, in Yuuri’s experience, and also dealing with lies makes life as an empath that much harder.  “Yes, always.”

“Hmm,” Viktor hums thoughtfully, his gaze still piercing and sharp and intent as he looks down at Yuuri. 

Yuuri swallows and continues to avoid actual eye contact by focusing on the curve of his silvery hair, falling gracefully to frame the right side of his face.  Or—well, that’s the right side when one faces him, but it’s technically Viktor’s left, so—?

“What about you?” Viktor asks, and Yuuri jerks out of his disjointed, distracted thoughts.

“Me?”

“What do you want to be?” he clarifies, then pauses, tilts his head to one side in thought.  “What do you want _us_ to be?”

Yuuri hesitates.  _Ideally_ , he wants them to be… to be soulmates, maybe, in some sense of the word.  They don’t have to fall in love, but he wants a deep bond and a connection and trust, trust strong enough to warrant the word _unbreakable_ , and he wants support and kindness and a love of some sort, whether romantic or not.  Ideally, he wants a marriage like that of his parents, is what he’s getting at.

Realistically, he has no idea how to get there, and realistically, it sounds way too far off to be practical.  How his parents did it, he’ll never know.  Maybe he should ask them for advice.

“I’d… like us to be friends,” he says after a moment, and some of the storm swirling behind Viktor’s eyes dissipates.  “Friends, but friends who let our relationship grow naturally.  If that’s—if that’s alright?  I mean… That’s what I want, anyway.”

“Me too,” Viktor agrees.  This time, his smile has genuine warmth.  “I’m glad you feel the same way.”

“Yeah,” Yuuri says, and then, feeling awkward for leaving it there, he adds, “I, ah, I didn’t mean to be so distant when you’ve just been trying to help me.  I’m sorry.”

Viktor blinks.  “It’s alright,” he says.  Then he squeezes Yuuri’s hands.  “And Yuuri?”

“Yes?”

“Can I show you something?”

Yuuri hesitates briefly, just for an instant, and then nods.

The temperature suddenly drops by at least ten degrees, and Yuuri has to suppress a sudden shiver.  A breeze tousles both of their hair and it’s _cold_ , the kind of cold that’s too sudden to be anything but magical.  The smile on Viktor’s face is cold, too, the sharp, biting kind of cold that warns of the perils of winter that lurk just below the surface, waiting to be unleashed. 

 _Ice Prince_ , Yuuri thinks, wide-eyed as he looks up at those frigid blue eyes, glowing ever so slightly thanks to Viktor’s powers.  This is the first time he’s ever used his magic in front of Yuuri, and the raw power that swirls just below the surface, waiting for his call, is a little bit, well… _terrifying_.  He’s seen ice magic before, but this is different.  He never knew Viktor had _this_ kind of strength.

But his hands, still gently holding Yuuri’s, are warm.  Yuuri squeezes his hands back as Viktor holds the spell for just a moment longer, just long enough that Yuuri can feel the strength he keeps shielded most of the time, and then he stops the magic.

“You shouldn’t worry about assassination too much,” Viktor says as the warmth seeps back into the world and the light in his eyes fades.

His smile is still dangerously sharp.  But it doesn’t frighten Yuuri.

Viktor, he’s coming to realize, is a lot like Phichit.  Sure, Phichit uses knives and shadow enchantment, and Viktor uses cutting words and ice spells, but both of them are utterly terrifying when they find someone they want to protect.

“I won’t,” he says, and Viktor’s smile warms.

“Good,” he replies.  “Because,” and he lifts one of Yuuri’s hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles, “I won’t let anyone lay a finger on you.”

No, seeing a glimpse of the Ice Prince in all his cold fury doesn’t frighten Yuuri at all.  Funnily enough, it actually leaves him feeling warm inside.

* * *

 

“So this is how you’ve been spending your time away from court, huh?” Kenjirou wonders, eyes shining.  “Prince Yuuri, you’re so cool!”

Yuuri laughs softly, ducking his head with embarrassment.  “Don’t go telling everyone,” he requests.  “I don’t want a lot of attention on everyone here, and I really don’t want a media storm about a foreign prince trying to curry favor by being philanthropic or something.  They don’t need that kind of negative attention.  I’m just here because I want to help, and it’s something to do with my hands.”

“Of course!” Kenjirou nods seriously, though he can’t stop smiling.  “You can count on me, Prince Yuuri!”  Yuuri blushes, a little self-conscious—he’d forgotten, in their time apart, just how much Kenjirou openly looks up to him, and it’s a little stressful, because he doesn’t want to let him down—and then leads the way into the orphanage.

“By the way,” he adds, glancing over his shoulder at Kenjirou.  “Feel free to just call me Yuuri.  I think we’ve been friends long enough, and I like to leave titles at the door when I come here.”

“Oh!”  Kenjirou positively beams.  “Sure thing, Pri—I mean, Yuuri.  Yuuri,” he repeats, as if the word sounds foreign without a title attached.  “Yuuri, Yuuri, Yuuri.”

Yuuri laughs, tempted to reach out and ruffle Kenjirou’s hair like Mari always does to him.  Kenjirou, as a little piece of home here in Ruthenia, is near and dear to Yuuri’s heart, like the little brother he never had.  “Kenjirou,” he says fondly, “you’re adorable.” 

Kenjirou flushes bright red and then giggles.  “Thanks, _Yuuri!_ ”

They spend the next three hours at the orphanage, and Yuuri’s heart warms at the sight of Kenjirou playing with children or helping them with lessons.  He spends more time in the kitchen, helping the other volunteers and employees make lunch for the kids, but Kenjirou is a natural with children.

“Thank you so much for taking the time to come help us,” says Isma, the woman who manages the orphanage, when she pulls Yuuri aside after lunch.  She says this every time he comes, full of deep, profuse gratitude that he can feel rolling off of her in waves.  The first time he showed up and quietly asked if he could help, she was moved almost to tears.

“I’m glad to,” Yuuri answers honestly, his voice soft as he glances at Kenjirou carrying a little girl on his shoulders.  “It makes me feel better, too.  Thank you for keeping my involvement here quiet; I would hate to bring the media into this.”

Isma looks surprised before the gratitude takes over again.  “Of course, Your Highness, I would never reveal your involvement here if you didn’t want it done—”

“No, no,” Yuuri shakes his head politely.  “Please, I’m just Yuuri here.  Just a man from Hinomoto who wants to help.  That’s all.”

“Begging your pardon, Your Highness,” Isma says stubbornly, just like she has every time he’s asked her to just call him Yuuri, “but knowing that you’re _not_ just some guy makes the kids happy.  They feel more hopeful, knowing one of the princes himself comes here for them.  And they won’t tell a _soul_.  They love you, and the loyalty of a child is something to be admired, Your Highness.”

Yuuri couldn’t hide his smile if he tried, looking out over the orphanage and the few kids still sitting at the lunch table, finishing up their food.  “Well,” he says, catching the eye of a little boy and waving, “when you put it that way, I guess the title is a good thing.”

“It is.  Thank you, again,” Isma says, and Yuuri smiles.

When they finally leave the orphanage, Kenjirou invites Yuuri back to his apartment for tea.  They settle down in the living room with two steaming cups of jasmine green, and Yuuri can’t help but smile at the traditional Hinomotan decorations that Kenjirou has hung all around the walls.  It’s… really nice, seeing such familiar patterns again.

“So,” Kenjirou says, blowing on his tea.  “How’ve you been, Prince—I mean, Yuuri?  Is court treating you well?”

Yuuri chuckles wryly.  “As well as court treats anyone, I guess,” he says.  It’s kind of odd seeing Kenjirou like this—the last time they sat down to talk for an extended amount of time was years ago, and Kenjirou was younger, more naïve, and inexperienced.  But now he’s been an emissary to Ruthenia’s court for over a year, and he’s not just Yuuri’s sweet younger friend.  They’re standing on the same playing field, here.  It’s not a bad thing—it’s just different.

“Mm,” Kenjirou hums.  “I’m guessing you’ve put together a pretty good picture of who likes who by now.  You were always good at that.”

“I guess I have,” Yuuri shrugs.  Then he pauses.  “What do you think about Lord Ivanovich?”

Kenjirou sits back with a sigh.  “He’s… not my favorite person out there,” he admits a little sheepishly.  “I think he’s very nationalistic but misguided.  And kind of ruthless.  Why?”

Yuuri blows out his breath, takes a careful sip of his tea, and says, “He told me he’s going to work as hard as he can to break off the alliance whether I’ll work with him or not, and also mentioned he might have me killed if he has to.  Charming fellow.”

Kenjirou sighs again, running a hand through his hair fretfully, and Yuuri is again struck by how much he’s matured.  “That… does sound like him,” he says.  “I don’t know how much of that was a bluff, to be honest.  It’s totally possible he was bluffing, but I feel like we shouldn’t downplay it, just to be on the safe side.  Have you told anyone about it?”

Yuuri shakes his head, looking down into his tea.  “I told Duchess Baranovskaya, Prince Plisetsky, and Viktor that Ivanovich told me that he wants me gone.  I didn’t explicitly mention the assassination threat, but I figure they’ve thought of it, too.  It’s not like it’d be a surprising move to try and have me killed to sabotage the alliance.”

It’s a little odd talking about himself so impersonally, like he’s just collateral damage in the grander scheme of diplomatic things.  A pawn, to be struck down and removed from the chessboard.  But that’s what he is, isn’t it?  A pawn in foreign territory, surrounded with no way to go save forward.

“Yeah, they’re probably aware,” Kenjirou agrees thoughtfully.  “I think you should talk to them more about this, though, Yuuri.”

Yuuri raises an eyebrow.  “You do?”

Kenjirou nods enthusiastically.  “As an ambassador, I have ties to the Nikiforovs because I’m the envoy who talks to the Ruthenian government.  But by that same token, I have to maintain a certain level of neutrality in court—I side with the Nikiforovs and their allies, but I’m not one of them.  But _you_ , on the other hand, you’re going to marry into their family, so you have no reason to _not_ be close to them, you see?”

This… sounds uncomfortably like the conversation about trust that Yuuri keeps putting off with Viktor.  “Where are you going with this?” he asks skeptically.

Kenjirou laughs.  “Yuuri, don’t you see?  They’d probably be willing to share a lot more of their intel with you than they are with me!  You should ask them and see what you can find out.  It’s not like you’re uninvolved, I mean.  You’re in the middle of this!  And you kind of have a lot at stake…”

“You mean my life,” Yuuri sighs.  “Yeah.  I know.  I… guess I should look into that.  Operating blind on this kind of stuff is probably a bad idea, isn’t it?”

Kenjirou gives him a wry smile and sips his tea.  “I don’t think you actually need me to answer that.”

“No,” Yuuri says glumly, because conversations about trust are hard and he’s not looking forward to this at all.  Perhaps he can do it… in a few days.  Three days, to be precise—he’ll give himself three days to figure out what to say.  “No, I don’t.”

* * *

 

A late spring snowstorm blows in that weekend, to Viktor’s utter delight.  Everyone bundles up and stays indoors, and as a result petition hours at court are decreased, and he takes the opportunity to spend some time with Yura, Mila, and Georgi.  He’s known them for years, and he’s thrilled that Yuuri gets along well with the three of them, too!

“If we’re not going to be able to go out,” Yuuri says thoughtfully, “and the end of petitions is cancelled, does that mean we just have free time right now?”

“Yes,” Georgi answers.  “Do you have something in mind that you want to do?”

Yuuri ponders, and Viktor watches him as he adorably taps his chin in thought.  Then he stands up.  “Well, I kind of want to cook?”

Viktor perks up immediately.  “What kind of cooking?” he asks.  “Is it that pork dish your mother made when I came to visit?  That was _divine_.”

Yuuri beams, and Viktor’s heart sings because _he_ was the one who just said something to put that smile there!  “Yes!” he says.  “It’s called katsudon, and it’s not actually that hard to make.  I just hope we have all the proper ingredients.”

“Well, it can’t hurt to go look!” Mila points out.  “C’mon, we can go hang out in the kitchen.  It’ll be warmer in there, anyway.”

“Ugh,” Yura mutters, wrapped in a tiger-striped plush blanket and glaring at everyone.  “This is stupid and I don’t want to come,” he adds, which translates roughly to _oh boy, that sounds fantastic and I can’t wait!_

Around an hour later, Viktor watches smugly as Yura puts the first bite in his mouth and then has to pretend his face didn’t just light up.

“You’re not a half-bad cook, Prince Katsudon,” he mumbles into his bowl.

“Prince Katsudon?” Yuuri repeats, adorably confused (everything he does is adorable and it’s not fair).

Yura shrugs.  “Well, _I’m_ Yuri, and this stuff is probably the only good thing about you being here, so it’s your new name.  You better make it more often.”

Yuuri blinks, surprised, and then laughs.  “Alright,” he says.  “I guess I’m Katsudon?”

“That’s cute,” Mila says shamelessly, and Viktor has to laugh at the look of pure indignation on Yura’s face.  The five of them spend the next few hours together, staying warm by watching a movie and drinking hot chocolate to celebrate the unexpected time off.  It’s nice, and the frigid temperatures outside fill Viktor with joy.  The ferocious dance of the snowstorm calls to him, tugs on his magic and beckons him out.

He’s sorely tempted to answer that call, to walk outside into the howling wind and swirling snow and to let his magic billow around him like a cloak, letting the ice seep into his soul and letting him command it as an extension of himself.  He could, if he wanted, test his strength against the storm, could conduct the winds like an orchestra of gales, could possibly even force it to change direction.  He’s trained a lot.  He’s strong.  He knows he is.

But there’s no need to exhaust himself now.  So he stays indoors and watches from the windows, sometimes, when he isn’t at his desk keeping tabs on the news or playing board games with Yura, Mila, Yuuri, and Georgi.  (They don’t get through more than a few turns in Monopoly before Yura threatens to light the board on fire, so that ends quickly.)

And then the evening comes and is followed by night, and he goes to bed, humming along with the howling wind.  It’s a good night.

* * *

 

[9:46] Yuuri:  
hi mari i know you’re busy today but can i call?

[9:53] Mari ( •⌄• ू )✧:  
hey sorry lil bro – ive got meetings for the next 2 hours  
i can call u as soon as theyre done?

[9:54] Yuuri:  
yes of course that’s fine, i’m sorry i know you have a lot to do

[10:01] Mari ( •⌄• ू )✧:  
dw abt it squirt, r u ok?

[10:01] Yuuri:  
mmmmm…………………………………

[10:03] Mari ( •⌄• ू )✧:  
did smth happen?

[10:04] Yuuri:  
no not really. just. really really anxious today. idk. hard to explain via text??

[10:09] Mari ( •⌄• ू )✧:  
ok. ill call as soon as im free  
r u gonna be ok for now?

[10:10] Yuuri:  
yeah i can manage, have fun at your meetings

[10:12] Mari ( •⌄• ू )✧:  
yea lol super fun. ill ttyl. hang in there, ok?

[10:12] Yuuri:  
haha ill try

* * *

 

The next day brings with it clear, blue skies and still frigid temperatures, and if the snowstorm had Viktor pleased, _this_ is positively exhilarating, because this kind of weather is _perfect_ for an ice mage to enjoy himself to the fullest.  He can feel the pulse of his magic power thrumming below his skin, running in his blood, and he itches to break free of the walls confining him inside to relish the cold air and fresh snow.

Which he absolutely plans to do!

First order of business, though: finding his fiancé.  After several seconds waiting outside his door for an answer to his knock, Viktor figures Yuuri must not be in his rooms and sets out to look for him.  He finds his prize in one of the sitting rooms nearby, the one with a huge, plush rug and one of Viktor’s favorite sofas in the entire world (a velvet affair with supremely soft cushions).  Yuuri is curled up on it, his phone in his hands and his back to the door.  Viktor takes a moment to admire him, illuminated by the bright sunlight streaming in from the windows along the far wall.

“I don’t really know,” Yuuri sighs, and Viktor realizes he’s on the phone with someone.  “I just—I woke up today and it was just… bad.  And—no, they’re running really low so I’ve been saving them for when I _really_ need them, and by that I mean I haven’t been using them even when I do need them, and I still haven’t told anyone about it and I’m scared to, even though I know I have to soon.  I’m just—I’m scared.  I know it’s stupid and I shouldn’t be, but I _am_.”

This… seems like a private conversation.

On the one hand, he really shouldn’t eavesdrop.  But on the other, what is Yuuri scared of?  It seems important that Viktor should know these things, if he’s going to be able to help his fiancé.  Did Ivanovich or someone else say something to him again?  Is he worried about the alliance?  Was there an assassination attempt?  What’s the something he’s almost out of?

Yuuri laughs humorlessly into the phone.  “No,” he says.  “Don’t.  You can’t tell them, it’ll only make them worry.  They worry about me enough.  No—no, I _know_ it’s because they care, I just—I don’t want to cause them any more stress than I already have, okay?”

This is too much.  The guilt for snooping is definitely starting to override his curiosity.  He should make his presence known.

“Yuuri!” he calls, standing in the doorway, and his fiancé jerks in surprise before he looks up with wide eyes before he smiles.  He’s been talking to his sister?  Yes, the person on his phone screen is Princess Mari Katsuki.  Viktor offers a cordial wave from the background of Yuuri’s camera.

“Oh, Viktor.  Did you need something?” Yuuri asks, and Viktor frowns slightly, peering at him.  Now that he looks more closely, that smile looks a little bit… pasted on, fake, not happy at all, and again, he can’t help but wonder what Yuuri and Mari were talking about.

 _It’s none of your business_ , he reminds himself, except that Yuuri is his fiancé, and things that upset and frighten someone’s fiancé are usually fair grounds for being that person’s business.  But no—he’s trying to strengthen their relationship, like his mother said they should, and that means he isn’t going to snoop.

But he _can_ try to cheer him up!

“I didn’t _need_ anything,” Viktor shrugs slightly, “but I would _like_ it if you would accompany me.”

“Accompany you where?” Yuuri asks, and is he … alarmed?  What’s he afraid of?  Viktor isn’t going to take him anywhere dangerous or anything like that!

“A surprise,” Viktor says, frowning slightly, “but a good one.  There wouldn’t be really anyone there, and I think today is perfect for it.”

Yuuri hesitates, glancing back and forth between the camera and Viktor. 

“I… guess,” he says uncertainly.  In Hinomotan, he bids his sister farewell and then hangs up, putting his phone in his pocket.  “Are we going out?  Should I get a heavier coat?”

“Yes,” Viktor says.  “I can walk you back to your rooms, if you wouldn’t mind me tagging along!”

“Ah, no, I don’t mind, that’s perfectly alright,” Yuuri says.  “But you—you don’t _have_ to, or anything,” he adds, and Viktor frowns.  Yuuri is acting a lot like he did when they first met, when he was a jittery mess hiding behind three tons of manners and etiquette rules.  Is something wrong?

They start to walk back to Yuuri’s rooms, arm in arm just like they always walk, but Viktor can’t quite shake the feeling that something is wrong.  He’s just about to ask, delicately, if Yuuri is alright, when someone approaches them as they pass the exit to the courtyard, and he slips back into court mode as soon as he recognizes Baroness Miloslavskaya.

“Your Highness,” she greets, stopping in front of them.  Viktor raises one eyebrow coldly—she only addressed him.  For a baroness to snub a prince is a bold move, and a rude one.  Yuuri stiffens ever so slightly next to him.  And that’s _another_ sign something is wrong; normally, Yuuri’s composure is unflappable.

“Baroness,” he answers neutrally.  “Is there something we can do for you?”

Baroness Miloslavskaya’s smile does not reach her eyes.  “I’m here to extend an invitation to you, Prince Nikiforov—several of the lords and ladies are planning to go out for lunch today, and Lairde Sokolova thought we should invite you, Your Highness.”

Viktor knows those names and all he has to say on this is… _Really?_   He’s being invited out for lunch with Ivanovich’s gang?  He smiles back, apologetic without being apologetic at all.  “My sincerest apologies, Baroness,” he says, very insincerely.  “But I already have plans with my fiancé.”  He casually places his hand on Yuuri’s shoulder.

She laughs, a tinny and fake sound.  Viktor resists the urge to roll his eyes.  If Ivanovich wants to talk to him, he should do it directly, not through a proxy.  “Oh, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind giving you up for one afternoon!  You _are_ supposed to be spending the rest of your lives together, what’s a few hours apart?”

 _Lord Ivanovich must really want to talk to me without seeming desperate_ , Viktor thinks to himself, dryly amused.  Either that, or Miloslavskaya is banking on getting him to come with her, so she’s the desperate one.  Whichever it is, they’re going to be disappointed.

“Let’s drop some of the pretense,” he suggests, keeping his voice light and continuing to smile, with absolutely no warmth behind it.  “If I come talk to Lord Ivanovich, who I know is the reason you are talking to me at all outside of court, I already know what he will say.  Do you not think he has tried to say it to me many times before?”

Miloslavskaya frowns.  “I’m not sure what you mean,” she says.  “If we’re dropping pretenses, then I’ll let you know I was only asked to bring you to the luncheon, nothing more.”

“Don’t play stupid,” Viktor says loftily.  “This is about the fact that an alliance with Hinomoto favors new trade avenues and further global expansion of our influence in the East rather than reinforcing the trade corridor that leads to Víteliú.”  Which would benefit the Nikiforov house and which would stand to lessen income for those houses with an investment in old trade.

“Yes,” Miloslavskaya agrees.  “That’s the big picture of it.”

Yuuri is curiously silent.  Viktor can’t help but wonder why he isn’t saying anything in defense of his own presence here.

“How about this,” Viktor says, smiling coldly.  “Run along now and tell your betters that I continue to stand with the Queen on this and all other matters, hmm?”

Miloslavskaya, to her credit, looks uncertain, and for a moment Viktor thinks maybe this ridiculous farce of a conversation is finally over, but then she forces an incredulous laugh and he groans inwardly.  “You expect me to tell him that you honestly are fine with marrying _him?_ ” she asks, looking at Yuuri for the first time.  Viktor bristles.

“And just what is that supposed to mean, Baroness?” he asks, too softly to be anything but deadly.  She’s treading on thin ice here.  Tiptoeing her way around insulting him is one thing.  Directly insulting his fiancé is another, and both Viktor the Crown Prince _and_ Viktor the friend of Katsuki Yuuri are displeased.

“Just that there are certainly… stronger choices,” she says delicately, as if she doesn’t want to outright say she’s prejudiced against Yuuri because she’s bitter that the Nikiforov family will join with the Katsukis and both will benefit.

Viktor draws his most frigid demeanor around himself like a cloak.  “I suggest you revisit your tutors, Baroness,” he says, dropping his smile as he glances down at her as though she’s utterly beneath him (she is).  “Your respect to those who outrank you could use some work.  _Prince_ Katsuki is far stronger than you know, and if he wasn’t what I or what Ruthenia wanted, I would have already broken off my engagement.  Now, shoo.  My fiancé and I have places to be.”

Without waiting for a response, he links his arm through Yuuri’s again and sweeps past Miloslavskaya, imperiously gliding down the hallway and around a corner.  Yuuri follows wordlessly.  Viktor waits until they’re a little ways away to turn and look down at him.

“Well!  That was an unpleasant encounter, but—Yuuri?”  He stops, alarmed.  Yuuri is pale and he’s _trembling_ , shoulders hunched in on himself and his free arm wrapped around himself as if to hold himself together.  “Yuuri, are you alright?”

“You said—you said I’m strong enough and if I wasn’t, you would send me back,” Yuuri whispers, his wide, frantic eyes fixed on the wall behind Viktor.  “Why did—why would—”

He breaks off, and Viktor furrows his brow, confused, as Yuuri pulls away from him to clutch at his head.  “You’re hyperventilating,” he observes, perhaps a tad unhelpfully.  “Do you need to sit down?”

Yuuri fumbles at one of his pockets for something that is apparently not there, because his hand comes out empty and he just stares at it for a moment, still trembling.  “ _Shit._ ”

“What is happening,” Viktor mutters, half to himself, because it’s almost like Yuuri isn’t hearing him.  He places his hands on Yuuri’s shoulders in what is hopefully a steadying gesture, helping him stay in place.  “Yuuri.  Yuuri, look at me.  What’s wrong?”

“Do _friends_ —do friends send each other back if they stop being good enough?  Strong enough?” Yuuri wheezes, and good lord, he’s shaking hard enough that Viktor is kind of amazed he’s still on his feet instead of collapsed on the floor.  Viktor blows out a breath.

“No, of course not,” he says, confused.  “But you’re perfectly fine the way you are, so I’m not going to try and break it off or anything—why is _this_ what’s upsetting you?  I said that because I was trying to _defend_ you from what she was saying about you!  Did none of that matter?”

Yuuri laughs, a breathless and desperate sound that’s uncomfortably close to tears, and Viktor has the selfish flash of the thought _oh god, please don’t start crying, I don’t know what to do with people crying in front of me_ , before Yuuri takes a shuddering, shallow breath and says, “I’m _not_ good enough, though.  I’m—I’m a fucking _disaster_ and I’ve been pretending to be a functioning human being this entire time!  And I guess I f-fooled you t-too!  But now I—I can’t keep faking, you saw me, and now I’m—I’m not good enough!  That’s—that’s the funny part, though.  I never have been, I was j-just good at _lying_ ,” and he chokes on a sob, though no tears fall yet.  “I guess it’s over now,” he adds, half-hysterical.  “I failed.  You’ll get rid of me now.”

“Yuuri, what—” Viktor starts, utterly bewildered because where does he even _start_ with this, but apparently Yuuri isn’t planning to have any more conversation anyway, because he gasps out a choked _sorry_ and ducks away from Viktor, and before Viktor can say a word, he flees back the way they came.  Viktor is torn, absolutely clueless as to whether he should go after him or not, and he hesitates, standing uncertainly in the hallway until he hears a sound that sends ice down his spine:

The big, creaky door to the courtyard just opened, audible even from here, and then slammed shut again like it does on windy days.

They were walking back to Yuuri’s room to get him into proper clothes for being outside.

They never made it there.

_Shit._

“Yuuri!” he calls, breaking into a run back down the corridor.  Doesn’t he know it’s below freezing out there?  What just _happened?_   “Yuuri, come back!”

He shoves the heavy door open and is immediately greeted by a blast of freezing air and a snow-and-ice-covered courtyard.  Swearing under his breath, he scans the ground, but plenty of people have walked through here today, and the snow is largely compacted already and he can’t tell which of the three paths in here Yuuri must have fled down.

“ _Yuuri!_ ”

Yuuri doesn’t answer. 

* * *

 

— Group Message [Yura, Mila, Georgi] —

[12:40] Viktor:  
Guys I have a problem  
A really big problem

[12:41] Mila:  
What did you do?

[12:41] Georgi:  
I like the implication that if there’s a problem, it’s Viktor’s fault.

[12:41] Yura:  
whatd you do old man

[12:42] Viktor:  
I lost my fiancé?

[12:42] Mila:  
????????

[12:42] Yura:  
you lost katsudon?????? the fuck?????

[12:43] Viktor:  
I don’t know, he got upset and ran off and I think he went outside but I can’t find him  
We were on our way to go by his room to get his coat before we went out for lunch  
And then we ran into Miloslavskaya and after that Yuuri ran away  
And I heard the courtyard door, you know the creaky one on the west side

[12:44] Georgi:  
He ran outside without his coat?

[12:44] Viktor:  
That’s why I’m worried

[12:45] Yura:  
jesus fuck what an idiot who goes outside without a jacket when its like this

[12:45] Mila:  
We can help you look for him!!! Right guys??

[12:46] Georgi:  
Yes of course!

[12:46] Mila:  
And Prince Yuri if you find him do us a favor and don’t call him an idiot.  I don’t think it’ll help.

[12:46] Viktor:  
Thank you all so much

[12:47] Yura:  
do you think im stupid??? i KNOW that babacheva

[12:47] Georgi:  
Please save the name-calling for after we find Prince Katsuki.

[12:48] Yura:  
yeah ok whatever

* * *

 

“Answer, answer, please, _please answer_ ,” Yuuri whispers into his phone, curled into a ball and rocking back and forth as he stares at the screen.  _Ringing_ , it says.  _Call to: homobipboa, duration 0:05_.  Five seconds of ringing.  It feels like it’s been five hours.

 _“Hey, it’s Phichit!_ ” a cheerful, pre-recorded voice announces from the speaker, and Yuuri’s heart sinks.  _“Looks like I missed your call, so leave a message if you want!  Bye!”_

There’s a beep.

“Hey,” he says hollowly.  “Sorry to bother you.  It’s just—been a bad day.  Can we call, when you get a chance?”

By the time he hangs up, his fingers are numb.  It takes him a minute to notice, though, because he feels numb in general, like he’s not really here and this entire day is just a bad dream.  Maybe he’ll wake up in his bed back inside the castle any minute now and shudder but brush it off—hell, maybe he’s going to wake up in _his_ bed, the one in Hasetsu Castle, and the entire _engagement_ will have been nothing but a prolonged, detailed nightmare.

 _And if he wasn’t what I or what Ruthenia wanted, I would have already broken off my engagement_ , he hears Viktor say again, so confident and poised and assured, and another violent shudder wracks his body.

“I’m not what they want,” he whimpers into his hands, shivering.  “I’m not, I’m not, I’m not, I’m too weak and I’m broken and stupid and fucked up in the head and I can’t do this!”

The ground he’s sitting on, somewhere in the large palace courtyards, is next to a frozen fountain, in a hollow between two bushes.  He's curled up in a ball with leaves and twigs poking his back and frigid snow beneath him, but he doesn't care.  This secluded area is the closest thing he could find to something similar to home, the gardens at Hasetsu, but he still feels like he can’t breathe, like there’s shards of glass in his throat.

And he can’t call Mari back.  He can’t, he _can’t_ —

_And if he wasn’t what I or what Ruthenia wanted, I would have already broken off my engagement._

—he’s not strong enough, he’s not good enough, he’s a failure and he’s going to singlehandedly be the reason the alliance falls apart, and because of that, he can’t possibly face his family now.  There is a very real, not-entirely-irrational possibility that he’s just ruined everything by having a very unfortunately timed panic attack and probably offending Viktor in the process, and it’s all his fault and it’s _terrifying_.

See, it’s a terrible cycle of spiraling thoughts that goes like this:

One.  He’s not good enough.

Two.  That’s an irrational thought, provided by his extremely unhelpful anxiety disorder.  It’s not true, because it’s not his fault that his brain is messed up and not okay.

Three.  He has an anxiety disorder.  His brain is messed up and not okay.

Four.  Someone without an anxiety disorder and with a properly functioning brain would be better than him at just about everything.

Five.  _He’s not good enough._

The real difficulty, apparently, is reconciling attempts at having self-worth and self-forgiveness with the harsh realities of the demands of literally everyone else and the weight of the world.  It would be a lot easier to be patient with himself if he wasn’t so afraid of his own anxiety problems fucking everything up, ironically.

“I was doing so well,” he whispers into the stillness, breath fogging in front of him.  It’s so cold.  He can’t stop shaking.  “I was doing so well, it’s not _fair,_ why did this have to happen today?”

The best (worst) part is, he _knows_ Viktor didn’t mean it like that.  Viktor was just trying to defend him, but on hearing those words, something in Yuuri just… broke.  His heart sank so fast he nearly burst into tears on the spot, unable to cope with the overwhelming feeling of _I’m a fraud I’ve fooled them all into thinking I’m not useless but I’m a fraud, I’m a fraud, I’m a fraud!_

Fuck, it’s cold out here.

He looks up at the impossibly blue sky, not a cloud in sight, and wishes the sunlight was warm.  As it is, it’s like it’s mocking him, shining down on such a freezing day.  Then again—there’s something about having the cold blow right through him and knowing this can’t be good for him that’s satisfying, in a sick, twisted sense.

His phone buzzes and he immediately grabs for it with numb, pale, fumbling fingers, hoping desperately that it’s Phichit, please, _please_ —but it’s only Viktor, and as soon as he sees “ _3 unread messages_ ” his anxiety spikes again.

Not yet.

He can’t deal with this yet.

He just has to _breathe_.

The frigid air makes his throat hurt and his eyes water, and he half-wonders what it would be like if his tears froze to his skin, but he’s more numb than anything now, not really shivering as much anymore.  It’s kind of like he gave up on that or something, too exhausted after the ordeal of, well, of having a panic attack.

_Bzz-bzzz.  4 unread messages from Viktor Nikforov._

He turns his phone face down in the snow and buries his face in his hands.  They’re cold, and it almost makes him flinch away from his own touch.

_Bzz-bzzz._

“Shut _up_ ,” he begs, and in a fit of desperation he grabs his phone and puts it on silent instead of vibrate.  Then he hesitates, because what if Phichit calls him and he doesn’t pick up?  He—he can’t—no.  No, Phichit is busy right now, obviously, and the only person trying to contact him is the one he’s terrified to talk to.

He leaves the phone on silent.

Minutes drag by like molasses, and Yuuri keeps his face pressed into his hands, eyes closed.  He’s just trying to breathe now, counting slow _one, two, three, four_ s as he inhales and exhales air cold enough to make him cough.  The worst of the panic is over, and he can feel himself settling into the slow, numb spiral into a depressive episode like sinking into the familiar arms of a lover.  He’s just too tired to fight it off.

_In, two, three, four…_

What was he _thinking?_   He can’t do this.  He’s a failure to his family and they should have known that, but they love him and it makes them blind to his flaws.  He should have been able to be honest with them, should have been able to tell them _I can’t do it, I’ll mess up_ , but …

_Out, two, three, four…_

He _wanted_ to be good enough.  He wanted to prove himself wrong, wanted so many things, but he’s nothing special and he doesn’t belong here.

 _In, two, three, four_ …

Are those footsteps, crunching in the snow?  No matter.  They fade into the ambience of everything else, and he pays no more attention.

“Prince Katsuki?  Oh, thank god, there you are!”

Yuuri jerks in surprise, head snapping upright as Lady Babicheva comes running toward him from around the corner.  She’s bundled up in a nice scarf and coat and has a cloak thrown over her shoulders, too, the dark fabric contrasting sharply with her bright red hair, and she looks so _worried_.

“L-Lady Babicheva,” he greets, wincing at the crack in his voice.  Fuck, he probably _really_ looks like a mess.  Reaching for his empathy, he tries to focus it inward, forcing his fear and sadness away and replacing them with… nothingness.  Emptiness.  He knows how to deal with emptiness.  But he finds himself hesitating.

He… oh, fuck him, his pathetic ass doesn’t _want_ to lock his emotions away because he’s tired of handling everything alone and he _wants_ someone to see and ask if he’s alright and comfort him.  But this is really not the time and place!

To his surprise, Lady Babicheva unclasps her cloak and settles it around his shoulders with a dramatic toss.  It’s surprisingly warm, warm enough he jolts in surprise.

“We’ve been worried sick,” she says, her voice low and kind as she ties the clasp under his chin.  “Prince Viktor said you ran off outside and asked us to help find you—come on, it’s _freezing_.  Let’s go in, okay?”

She isn’t really giving him much of a choice, her hands gentle but firm on his wrists as she pulls him to his feet and starts leading him away.  He barely has the presence of mind to remember his phone is sitting on the ground too, grabbing it without a word and stuffing it into his pocket.

To her credit, Lady Babicheva doesn’t say much until they’ve crossed through the connected courtyards and reached the palace again.  She just leads him indoors, quick and quiet, and then sighs.

“I’ll call Viktor,” she says. “He’s worried—”

“No,” Yuuri begs, eyes wide.  “No, don’t.  Please.”  _I’m not ready to face him yet._

Lady Babicheva purses her lips, phone in hand.  “Everyone will keep on looking for you if I don’t let them know I found you,” she says, clearly conflicted.  “How’s this.  I’ll tell them you’re with me, _and_ I’ll tell Viktor you don’t want to talk to him yet.  Okay?”

Yuuri hesitates for a long moment, clutching the cloak around himself.  It must be enchanted with a heating charm, because it’s _warm_ , warm enough to make him realize just how cold he’s been, breaking through the numbness and making him shiver helplessly.

“We’ll go sit somewhere nice and warm and private,” Lady Babicheva tries, her brows knitting together with concern.  “And if Viktor tries to talk to you before you’re ready I will toss him out a window.  I can do it, you know.”

A heartbeat passes.  Two.

“Okay,” Yuuri breathes.  He doesn’t really have much other choice, does he?

* * *

 

— Group Message [ice ice baby, pudding n pie, angry kitten princeling] —

 

[13:09] Mila:  
found him

[13:09] ice ice baby:  
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  
THANK GOD.  
Is he okay????? Where are you?? I’ll be right there

[13:10] Mila:  
Nope!  You sure as hell will not!  
He’s a wreck and he doesn’t want to talk to you right now.  Give him some time.

[13:11] angry kitten princeling:  
lmao old man u just got shut tf down

[13:11] pudding n pie:  
There’s a time and a place, Prince Yuri.

[13:12] angry kitten princeling:  
shut up georgi  
@mila what happened to katsudon

[13:13] Mila:  
Not sure.  He’s not talking much.  
Kinda just staring at the hot chocolate I gave him.  
Again, give him some time.

* * *

 

“What happened?” Mila asks softly, kind of afraid to disturb the silence but desperately curious.  Prince Katsuki hasn’t said a word since she led him back to his rooms, just nodding mutely when she told him to go change into dry clothes while she rummaged through his kitchenette and quietly accepting the mug of hot chocolate she pressed into his hands.  _Something_ is wrong, that much is obvious, but she has no idea what.

Prince Katsuki takes a deep, shaky breath.  “I…” he tries, his voice barely audible.  “I just…  I can’t,” and he shrugs helplessly, staring down into the mug.  Mila’s chest aches.  She wants to help, she really does, but she doesn’t know how, and it’s killing her.

“You can’t what?” she prods after a moment, keeping her voice as gentle as she can.  Talking about things helps, right?  Usually when she’s upset she likes to vent to whoever will listen (which usually ends up being Princess Crispino via very long text messages).  Hell, maybe she should ask Sara what to do.  Couldn’t hurt.  …Later, though.

Prince Katsuki just shakes his head helplessly, looking very small and very forlorn under the blankets she’s piled around him.  Mila wonders if he would accept a hug right now.  He looks like he needs it.

“…Can I hug you?” she asks tentatively.  He hesitates but nods, and she uncrosses her legs, hops up from her perch on the armrest, and crosses the rug to wrap her arms around him tightly.

“Thank you,” he whispers.  “I’m sorry for being … like this.”  There’s a ghost of a chuckle there, the textbook definition of self-depreciating laughter.

“It’s perfectly alright,” Mila reassures, petting the top of his head in what she hopes is a soothing manner.  “Everyone has bad days.”

“N-no, that’s… not what I meant,” Prince Katsuki mumbles.  He’s still shivering, good lord.  Maybe she should get under the blankets and try to share some body heat?

“What did you mean, then?” she asks, electing to save the question of whether cuddling would be okay for after she gets some words out of him.  This is the most words he’s said since she found him, pale and trembling, in the snow by the fountain in the western courtyard.  He was hiding under a  _bush_ , for crying out loud!  What was she supposed to do?

“I—I had…”  Another deep, shaky breath, as if he’s steeling himself for what he’s about to say.  Mila keeps petting his hair.  “I had a really bad panic attack, that’s all.”

“Oh,” Mila says.  That… that does make sense, from what she knows of panic attacks.  “Oh, no.  I’m sorry.”

 _How the hell do you comfort someone after they’ve had a panic attack?_ she wonders frantically.  _Holy shit, I don’t know what I’m doing at_ all!

“It’s okay,” Prince Katsuki whispers, and she winces, because perhaps _I’m sorry_ was the wrong thing to say after all.  The only real response to _I’m sorry_ tends to be _it’s okay_ , but…

“It’s not okay,” she contradicts weakly.  “I mean—that’s really shitty, you know?  Uh, pardon my language, I guess—but I’m just, I don’t know.  What I’m trying to say is, you’re my friend and something had you really upset, and that’s not okay, yeah?”  She pauses.  “…Did Viktor do something?”

By the way Prince Katsuki stiffens, she knows she’s hit a nerve.

“He… said something that upset me,” Prince Katsuki admits.  “I—I don’t want to say what.  I don’t want to talk about that with anyone but him, and I don’t—I don’t feel ready to talk to him yet.”

“That’s alright,” Mila consoles.  “Um… how are you feeling now?”

“Cold,” Prince Katsuki says immediately, a humorless smile flickering across his face.

That… wasn’t the kind of _how are you feeling_ she intended, but she can go with it.

“Yeah, you’re still shaking,” she murmurs.  “I’m almost scared you got yourself hypothermia… okay.  I know it’s kind of awkward, but, um…”

This is a lot more awkward to explain than it is to actually do.  With a short sigh, Mila pulls her sweater over her head and drops it aside, and as Prince Katsuki watches, bewildered (he seems tired and numb and confused, and that’s not helping her suspicions that he might have mild hypothermia), she unpeels the blankets from around him and then slips in next to him, wraps them both up tightly, and slides her arms around his waist.

“Sorry,” she says, pressing herself against his side and pulling him halfway into her lap.  “I know this is awkward, but I’m warmer than you are, so…”

“That’s—that’s okay,” Prince Katsuki mumbles.  He takes a tentative sip of hot chocolate, then puts the mug aside on the table with an apologetic look, probably because his hands shaking too much to trust himself to hold it.  Or maybe he just can’t drink right now.  Mila tries to increase contact between herself and his back, and he sighs softly.  “I’m sorry for making you go to all this trouble, Lady Babicheva.”

“Call me Mila,” she murmurs against his shoulder.  He’s still shaking, god…  “Please.  We’re friends, right?”

“Oh,” Prince Katsuki says quietly.  “Um.  Yeah.”

Mila sighs and tries her best to slowly rub warmth back into his shivering body.  Unfortunately, she’s not _that_ much warmer herself.  She’s always run cold, and poor circulation means her hands and feet are still kind of cool to the touch.  If only she knew fire elemental spells, she’d have her core temperature up in a jiffy!  But that’s not where her talent lies.

Actually though, that gives her an idea.  _She_ doesn’t know fire elemental magic, but she knows someone who does…

* * *

 

— Private Message [angry kitten princeling] —

[13:24] Mila:  
Hey Yura could you give me a hand please

[13:24] angry kitten princeling:  
???

[13:24] Mila:  
We’re in Prince K’s rooms, come here?  
I feel like he could use some help from elemental fire magic  
I’d ask Viktor but Prince K really doesn’t wanna talk to him rn

[13:25] angry kitten princeling:  
………………you want me. to come over there. and hug him. to warm him up.

[13:25] Mila:  
Please???  
I know it’s awkward but he’s so cold  
I got him to change into dry clothes and I gave him my heated cloak but he’s still!! So cold!!

[13:26] angry kitten princeling:  
……………………………  
ughhguhgghghghghhggh

* * *

 

Yuuri is cold.

Now that he’s started to warm up again, he just—he _can’t stop shivering_.  Even bundled up under four blankets and a sweater, plus some thick socks, it’s like there’s no warmth in his body, and the layers can’t trap and reflect heat if he isn’t giving any off.  Mila’s presence is helping, yes, but he’s just _so cold_ —

The door rattles.  Yuuri jumps, startled and a little terrified, because the reason he asked Mila to lock it was _what if Viktor comes by_ , and that was more of an irrational fear than anything because he knows she asked Viktor to stay away, but—

“Hey!  Open up, Babacheva!” Prince Plisetsky calls, irritable as ever, his voice muffled by the wood.  “Why’d you tell me to come here and then lock the fucking door?”

Yuuri relaxes just a bit.  Prince Plisetsky, he’s discovered, is all bark and no bite, and Yuuri knows how to handle him now.  He’s still not feeling great, but Prince Plisetsky is a hundred times better than Viktor.

“You called him over?” he hesitantly asks Mila as she starts to extricate herself from the blanket pile, leaving him shivering again.  “Why?”

“Because,” she answers, heading for the door, “he’s really good at elemental fire.”

Yuuri’s fuzzy, foggy brain takes a full second to figure out why elemental fire magic could be useful right now before he manages to dredge up the knowledge that oh, right, fire magic allows the user a great degree of control over their own core body temperature, among other things, and Yuuri is _freezing_.

(Viktor knows some elemental fire, too, even if he specializes in ice, his treacherous brain reminds him, and he shudders involuntarily at the memory of the stricken look on Viktor’s face when Yuuri ran away from him earlier.  How can he face him again after that?)

By the time he pulls himself back to the present, Prince Plisetsky is in the room with him and Mila is locking the door again.  Yuuri blinks and looks up to see Prince Plisetsky staring down at him with blatant disapproval.

“Katsudon,” he greets curtly.  “You’re a fucking idiot for going out like this, you know that?”

“ _Yura!_ ” Mila hisses, approaching with quick strides to smack the prince with a pillow scooped up from an armchair.  He squawks indignantly and turns to glare at her, but she just crosses her arms and says pointedly, “Tact!”

“Shut up, Babacheva!” Prince Plisetsky huffs, turning back to Yuuri.  Without further ado, he peels the blanket cocoon away, and Yuuri tries his best to suppress a horrible shudder as the cooler air from the room sneaks its icy tendrils around him.  Prince Plisetsky scowls.  “I’m not doing this because I like you,” he informs Yuuri, and then plops down in his lap like some kind of sullen, oversized teddy bear.  Mila tucks the blankets back around both of them with a look of unbridled relief.

Prince Plisetsky is a lot warmer than Mila was, already, and Yuuri wraps his arms around him without really thinking about it.  Prince Plisetsky lets out a long-suffering sigh.

“I can’t believe you’re making me do this,” he mutters.  “I should’ve done anything but fire, if this is how I’m gonna be treated.  What am I, some kind of fucking space heater?”

“We both know there’s no way you would’ve been anything other than a fire specialist,” Mila laughs.  She sinks down in the armchair she grabbed the pillow from, tucking her feet up next to her and glancing at her phone for a moment.  Yuuri closes his eyes.  He could fall asleep like this.  He’s still shivering, but not as badly anymore—Prince Plisetsky is putting out enough heat that it’s slowly thawing the chill out of his bones.

“If you fall asleep on me, I will light you on fucking fire,” Prince Plisetsky warns, crossing his arms.  He leans back against Yuuri, though, and lays his head against his shoulder, still wearing a face like he’s just been asked to donate both his kidneys.

“Sure, that sounds nice,” Yuuri mumbles, not really caring if he says it out loud or not.  He’s _tired_ of pretending he doesn’t have all these stupid thoughts, and pretending he’s always fine, and _ugh_ —he already had a massive meltdown in front of Viktor, what does it matter if he says stupid things in front of the others?  Besides, it could always be mistaken as _I’m just really cold, please warm me up faster_ , so…

Prince Plisetsky whips around to stare at him incredulously.  “The fuck is wrong with you?  First you try to kill yourself by freezing to death—dumb as shit idea, by the way, if you wanted to do that you should’ve done it yesterday, idiot—and now you’re joking about getting lit on fire?”

Mila snorts.  “To be completely fair, Yura,” she says, “you did just joke about lighting him on fire.”

“I said, shut up, Babacheva,” growls Prince Plisetsky, but his cheeks are kind of pink.  “I wasn’t talking to you.”

 _What_ isn’t _wrong with me?_   Yuuri doesn’t ask.  It’ll sound way too much like he’s begging for attention, and he’s not sure how the two of them would react but he knows he sure as hell doesn’t want pity, so he can’t say anything that might warrant it.

Instead, he just sighs, stuck, because while he’s tired of _not_ talking about anything, he’s petrified when it comes to _talking_.  How does he start?  How does he explain it?  It’s practically impossible!

Unable to find the right words, he sinks into silence, upset and numb and internally berating himself all over again.  Didn’t he have years of damn speech training?  Why is he still so _bad_ at this?  God, he feels almost physically ill from self-loathing—he should have taken care of this when he first got here, should never have pretended everything was fine, should have been reasonable and responsible and not a fucking idiot—

“Yuuri?” Mila asks, cutting into his spiraling thoughts so suddenly that he actually jumps and smacks his chin against Prince Plisetsky’s head.

“Hey!”  The irate look sent his way makes him drop his eyes immediately.

“Sorry,” he mumbles immediately.

“Yuuri, your phone is ringing,” Mila says more insistently.  She pauses, leaning over to look at it, and adds, “It’s… ‘Homobipboa’?”

Yuuri stiffens.  “I—I need to answer,” he says, and starts to lean over to grab it from the coffee table, except that that’s quite an endeavor when Prince Plisetsky is sitting against his chest and they’re both wrapped up in four blankets and therefore have rather limited mobility.

“You’re gonna make us both fall, you dumbass!”” Prince Plisetsky cries, shoving him back toward the cushions.  “I’ll get it, here,” and he sticks his arm out of the blankets, leaving Yuuri to hold onto him so he doesn’t fall when he grabs for the phone, just barely out of reach.

He manages to get it before Yuuri starts seriously worrying it’s been ringing long enough that Phichit will hang up or leave a voicemail, and passes it over with a roll of his eyes.

Yuuri answers immediately.  “Hi,” he mumbles, barely there.

A sigh of relief answers him.  “Hey,” Phichit says.  “I’m so sorry I didn’t answer your call earlier, Yuuri, I was out with the guild and—you know how that is, but I’m still really sorry.  How are you now?  What happened?”

Anxiety lurches again in the pit of Yuuri’s stomach.  He’s afraid.  It’s like—it’s like the act of telling Phichit what happened will make it even more real, will throw him further into the terrifying uncertainty of not knowing how much he offended Viktor by running away after yelling at him, of not knowing if he’s just ruined the alliance by being so… so…

“Yuuri?” Phichit prompts.

“I did something stupid,” he breathes.  “Something really stupid.  I—I can’t talk about it right now, though.”

“Can’t?” Phichit asks, focusing on that one word, unfortunate as it is.  Yuuri frantically looks around the room to remind himself to breathe again.  “Are you with people or something?”

“Yeah,” he says.  “Yeah.  Can’t talk.”

“That’s okay,” Phichit reassures. “It’s okay.  We can talk about it later, if you want, okay?  Don’t stress.”

“Did you just tell _me_ not to stress?” Yuuri deadpans, wondering if the laughter in his chest is hysterical.  It’s probably a little bit hysterical.  “I don’t think it works like that, Phichit.”

Phichit sighs the long-suffering sigh of a best friend who puts up with too many self-deprecating jokes and answers, “Well, okay, it’s one _less_ thing for you to stress about, Mister Walking Talking Stress Ball.”

“Thank you,” Yuuri says.  “That’s my official title.  I don’t know anything about princes.”

“Hilarious,” Phichit agrees.  “Anyway.  Are you okay?”

“Not really,” Yuuri answers, simultaneously too anxious and too exhausted to bother lying.  “No.  I’m not.  But I—I can’t talk right now, okay?  Not about that.  Actually, I think… I think I need to talk to Viktor.  I just—I _can’t_.  I…”

Oh, fuck, he’s about to cry on the phone, just hearing his best friend’s voice after all the bullshit of today.  Oh, _fuck_ , he’s seriously on the verge of tears again—no, no, no, he can’t break down again, especially not in front of Mila and Prince Plisetsky!

“I should go,” he tells Phichit, woodenly, hating himself.  “I _can’t_ talk right now.”

“Okay,” Phichit says gently.  “It’s gonna be okay, Yuuri.  If you need me, I’ll be here.  I’m not going out for the rest of tonight, and I’ll leave my phone on loud, and if you need me, I’ll be right here.  If you have to go now, that’s fine, I don’t want you to feel bad for it, yeah?”

“I love you,” Yuuri chokes out, swallowing a sob and blinking back tears.  “I love you so much!”

“I love you too,” Phichit assures him.  “Do you want me to stay on the line?”

“I—I do, but I can’t,” Yuuri says desperately.  “If I keep talking I’ll cry again and I _can’t_ right now, I need to get my head back in order so I can talk to him later, I can’t cry until after that!”

“That’s fine, Yuuri!” Phichit exclaims.  “If you’re not in a place where it’s okay to talk, then we can talk later.  Don’t feel bad about it, it’s _fine_.  You can call me as soon as you finish talking to him, if that’s what helps.”

“I’ll do that,” Yuuri promises.  “I’ll… I’ll talk to you later.”

“Okay,” Phichit says.  “Bye, Yuuri!”

“Bye,” Yuuri whispers, and drops the phone to the couch.  Phichit can end the call.  He can’t bring himself to do it.

When he looks up again, Mila is looking at him with open concern.  Prince Plisetsky is frowning, but that might be concern, too.

“Um,” he says, awkward and unsure and confused.  “Sorry about that.”

“Yuuri,” Mila begins, then stops, as if she’s _also_ awkward and unsure and confused.  “I… I don’t really know what’s going on, but… is there anything we can do to help?”

Yuuri’s immediate, knee-jerk reaction is to shut that down and say _no, I’m fine_.  The problem is, he’s _exhausted_ and he doesn’t want to keep pretending that he’s fine.

“I don’t know,” he says instead, useless as ever.  “I… just need to calm down, that’s all.”

“What the hell _happened?_ ” Prince Plisetsky asks, eyes narrowed as he twists around to peer up at Yuuri.  “I thought you were smarter than to go out when it’s below freezing with only one goddamn sweater on.”

Yuuri shrugs listlessly.  “I panicked and didn’t really think about it,” he says.  “I _know_ it was stupid.”

“Well, why’d you panic?” Prince Plisetsky persists.  Yuuri stiffens.

“ _Yura_ ,” Mila hisses.  “If he doesn’t want to talk about it, don’t make him!”

 “I—maybe I can tell you later,” Yuuri tries, biting his lip.  He squeezes his eyes shut and takes deep breaths— _in, two, three, four, out, two, three, four_ —and shakes his head.  “I’m sorry.  I just—I can’t talk about it right now.  I _can’t_.”

“That’s okay!” Mila says quickly, waving her hands.  “You don’t have to!  It’s fine!  Here, do you want me to reheat that hot chocolate for you?  Or maybe I should make tea?  Tea’s calming!  And I can get a movie going if that would help, something nice and distracting?  Only if you want it though?”

She’s trying, she really is, and Yuuri appreciates that more than he can say right now.  Gratitude overwhelms him, makes tears well up in the corners of his eyes all over again.  He blinks them away, again, because there’s no need for them and he’s pretty sure if he breaks down crying over one thing, he’ll end up crying over _everything_.

“I—I would appreciate the tea,” he says thickly, and Prince Plisetsky lets out a loud, contemptuous sigh.  “And a movie would—that would be nice.  Thank you very much, you’re very kind.”

“Of course, it’s no problem!” Mila assures him, relief evident in her face as she gets up to go boil water.  “I’m just glad to help.  It’s what friends are for!”

“Yeah,” Yuuri agrees quietly, so quietly she probably doesn’t hear him.  Prince Plisetsky sighs again, and Yuuri mumbles a “Thank you” to him.

“Don’t mention it,” he answers, and then pauses, twisting around to look up at Yuuri with a frown.  “And I mean that.  This never happened, Katsudon.”

A flicker of a smile tugs at Yuuri’s lips for a fleeting moment.  “Of course not.”

Prince Plisetsky nods once and settles back more comfortably against Yuuri’s shoulder.  “Good,” he says, then adds a little more hesitantly, “You know, you’re not _as_ terrible as I first thought you would be.”

And this must be the Prince Yuri Plisetsky brand of comfort in times of emotional crisis.  _You’re not_ as _terrible_ , the prince says, of course leaving room to imply that Yuuri still is somewhat terrible, because unbridled affection would be unseemly.  Or something.  But that implication, bizarrely, doesn’t make Yuuri feel worse.  It just makes him want to laugh.  Maybe it’s the hysteria coming back again?

“Thank you,” he says again, his voice firmer and further from tears than before.  There’s even almost a wry note in it, which he has to admit surprises him a little.  He wasn’t sure he could manage actual amusement on top of everything else.  “I am incredibly flattered.”

“Yeah, well, don’t expect me to remind you often,” Prince Plisetsky huffs.  “I didn’t say you’re great or anything.  Just that you’re not as shitty as you _could_ have been.  That’s all.  Don’t let it go to your head, stupid.”

“Yura, will you ever learn actual manners?” Mila asks from the other side of the room, where she’s pouring hot water over a teabag.

“Shut up, Babacheva,” Prince Plisetsky calls back without even looking up, as if it’s his default response to anything she says.  After knowing the two of them this long, Yuuri’s inclined to think it actually is.

“I take that as a no,” she says with a sigh, shaking her head in mock disapproval.  The teasing lilt in her voice fades, though, when she looks back to the two of them and asks, “So what kind of movie should we watch?”

“Action,” Prince Plisetsky says immediately.  “One of those spy thrillers where a lot of shit blows up, I like those.”

“I was _asking_ _Yuuri_ ,” Mila scolds him as she comes back to the couches, mug of steaming, enticing tea in hand.  She passes it to Yuuri, who notes with relief that it certainly seems a lot easier to drink than rich hot chocolate, no matter how well-intentioned that was.  “Do you want to watch one of those action movies?”

Yuuri hesitates.  “Um… not really…”

Prince Plisetsky lets out a long-suffering sigh.  “So I’m the space heater _and_ I have to suffer through whatever shitty movie you guys pick?”

“Yura,” Mila says.  “Hush.”

“You can’t hush me, I don’t have to listen to you.”

“I know a good movie,” Yuuri interrupts quietly, staring down into the tea instead of looking at either of them.  “It’s Hinomotan.  I… it’s one of my favorites.  If that’s okay?”

“Of course!” Mila chirps, going to the TV at the wall.  “What’s it called?”

That’s how Yuuri finds himself watching one of his childhood favorite movies with two Ruthenians, curled up on a couch with tea and his slowly declining anxiety.  This is nice, he thinks.  This is… it’s good.  It feels solid.

Perhaps he will be able to face Viktor soon.

* * *

 

[12:39] Viktor:  
Yuuri???

[12:41] Viktor:  
Yuuri I don’t know what just happened but please just tell me you’re alright  
I’m worried

_[Missed call from Viktor]_

[12:44] Viktor:  
Why aren’t you answering any calls?

[12:49] Viktor:  
Yuuri please talk to me  
Are you okay?

_[Missed call from Viktor]_

_[Missed call from Viktor]_

[12:53] Viktor:  
Please come inside, I’m afraid you’re going get hurt

[12:59] Viktor:  
?

_[Missed call from Viktor]_

[13:04] Viktor:  
Yuuri please

[21:52] Yuuri:  
hi

[21:52] Viktor:  
Hi.

[21:53] Yuuri:  
i’m really sorry for earlier  
i’m in my rooms. can we talk?

[21:53] Viktor:  
I’m on my way.

* * *

 

Yuuri isn’t sure what he’s expecting when Viktor arrives, but in the five or so minutes between receiving his text and hearing the knock on the door, he manages to psych himself up into a good bit of panic again, half-convinced that this talk is going to end with him getting kicked out of Ruthenia for being a terrible fiancé and an even worse prince.  He’s boiling more water for another cup of tea, blanket draped around his shoulders as he stands fretting at the counter, when he hears it: 

Three quick raps against the wood.

He takes a deep breath.  Mila and Prince Plisetsky are gone—after several movies and lots of tea, he finally steeled himself and told them he needed to talk to Viktor alone, so they left—which is a mixed blessing, in that their presence certainly helped him calm down, but he doesn’t want to have this conversation in front of them, not when he has no idea how it’s going to go.

He shuffles across the room, mug in hand and blanket still worn, and opens the door.

“Hi,” Viktor says, his face carefully neutral.  Yuuri bites his lip nervously and reaches out with an empathic probe, afraid, and finds a mixture of worry, relief, confusion, hurt, and anger, which does absolutely nothing to set him at ease or to assuage the guilt churning in his stomach. “Can I come in?”

“Oh—um—yes, of course,” he says quickly, stepping back to allow Viktor in.  He closes the door after him and they both go sit down, Viktor in an armchair and Yuuri in the corner of the couch again, complete with his pile of blankets.

They sit awkwardly for several heartbeats.

Yuuri stares into his tea.

Viktor clears his throat.

Finally, Yuuri takes a deep breath and says, “I’m sorry.”

Viktor shifts in his seat, crossing one leg over the other.  “What was that, earlier?  I don’t understand what happened.”

He still sounds so controlled, so neutral, and Yuuri’s heart sinks.  He must really be upset.  “I’m sorry,” he says again.  “I never—I made a mistake.  I should have been honest with you about this from the start, but I lied to myself and convinced myself it would never be relevant.  But, ah…”  He hesitates, glances quickly at Viktor but sees the same dispassionate look, and winces, dropping his gaze.  “I have generalized anxiety disorder and sometimes it severely impacts my ability to function.  Earlier I had a panic attack.  That was why I ran away.  I’m sorry.”

Viktor takes a moment to digest that information, resting his chin on one hand and pressing his lips into a firm, displeased line.  “You should have told me,” he says carefully.

Yuuri squeezes his eyes shut, scrounges around for steel to strap to his spine, and then meets Viktor’s gaze.  “You’re angry with me,” he says, feeling numb once again.  It’s not a question.

Viktor’s eyes light up with barely-contained frustration.  “Of course I’m angry!” he snaps, leaning forward.  “You just ran off with no explanation and no regard for yourself!  And then you _hid_ , out in the frozen courtyard of all places, and you didn’t answer _any_ calls or texts and—do you even realize how easy it would have been for an assassin to get you today?  Do you even care how _worried_ I was?”

Yuuri stares at him, frozen in place.  When Viktor’s face blurs, clouded by tears that start to spill down his cheeks, he quickly scrubs at his face and tries to steady his breathing, sipping his still-hot tea and wincing when it scalds his tongue.

“I—I’m _sorry_ ,” he whispers, giving up and putting the mug down on the coffee table and pushing his glasses up into his hair so he can bury his face in his hands miserably.  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m _sorry_ , Viktor, I k-know I handled it badly, I don’t have an excuse, it’s all m-my fault, don’t you see?  This is j-just what I meant, I’m stupid and I’m not, I’m not good enough and I should just go _back_ —”

“Yuuri,” Viktor cuts him off, and the anger is gone but the desperation remains.  He’s quieter now, a shocked, almost _hurt_ note in his voice.  “Do you… You mean you… you want to go back?”

Yuuri chokes on his tears and can’t find it within himself to answer.

Viktor lets out an explosive sigh.  “Goddammit all, Yuuri, why can’t you just _talk_ to me!”

And there, there’s frustration, but also sadness and hurt again, and guilt punches Yuuri in the stomach and comes out as another sob, steadily building in his throat as Viktor looks at him, hurt and unhappy.  Yuuri can’t meet his eyes like this, so he doesn’t try, just burying his face in his hands to offer futile resistance to the tears. 

“You don’t tell me when anything is wrong and you automatically assume the worst and—I thought you said you wanted us to be friends!” he accuses, and even without looking at him, Yuuri knows those ice-blue eyes are flashing dangerously.

“I did,” Yuuri sobs.  “I _do!”_

Viktor laughs bitterly.  “Then why won’t you _trust_ me?  How can we be friends if we don’t trust each other?”

This is—this is too much.  Yuuri gets up, shaking, drops his glasses on the couch behind him, and stumbles around the coffee table to slump against Viktor, needing him to know that it’s not his fault and that this is all because of _Yuuri_ and he just can’t find the words to say it, but that’s his own fault, too!  He just—he _needs_ Viktor to know that, he has to know, and Yuuri doesn’t know how to tell him with words, so actions have to do.

Viktor lets out a soft sound of surprise, but he gathers Yuuri into his lap and lets him bury his face in his shoulder, still crying.  He’s warm, as usual, and Yuuri can smell the traces of cologne on his shirt.

“I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have yelled—I’m not angry _with you_ ,” Viktor says, more quietly, rubbing Yuuri’s back slowly and hesitantly.  “I’m—I was frustrated.  It’s because I felt helpless in the entire situation and I just—Yuuri.  Yuuri, why don’t you trust me?  Is it something I did?”

Yuuri shakes his head frantically.  “I _want_ to trust you,” he sniffles, his voice muffled by Viktor’s shoulder, “but I’m just—I’m scared.”

“What are you scared of?” Viktor asks in that same quiet, contemplative tone.  It’s soothing.  There’s something about his voice that helps cut through the haze of panic and self-loathing.  Yuuri presses a little closer to him, tears leaking out into his shirt.

“I don’t know,” Yuuri says stupidly.  “Scared of letting people in, m-maybe.  Everything is so _different_ here.”  He pauses, leans his forehead against Viktor’s neck, and adds softly, “It’s lonely.”

Viktor hugs him a little tighter at that.  “You… I wish you’d tell me these things sooner,” he murmurs.  “I wish I’d known you were feeling this way.  You—you know you don’t _have_ to do everything alone, right?  I’m here.  Mila’s here.  Georgi and Yura, too, and Minami.  There are people here who care for you.”

“Opening up is hard,” Yuuri says simply.  “Who actually cares for Yuuri, just Yuuri, when there’s Prince Katsuki, the representative of Hinomoto’s ruling family?”  Plain Yuuri is boring and nobody worries about him.  The only people who care about just Yuuri are thousands of miles away, and it’s sad.

“I do,” Viktor says, and Yuuri’s heart lurches painfully in his chest.  “I’m going to marry Yuuri, if he will still have me after today, and I want to be his friend and I want him to be my friend, and I want him to know I only want the best for him and that I hold him in the highest regard and that I trust him, and I swear I will do whatever is in my power to protect him, and I hope, maybe, he can bring himself to trust me, too.”  He stops speaking and looks down at Yuuri, and... oh,  _god._ He's just—this is too much all over again, in a different way, and Yuuri doesn't—he can't—

“ _Viktor_ ,” Yuuri sobs.  He hadn’t realized just how badly he needed to hear these things, how desperately he was craving affirmation and personal validation, but oh, _god_ , he’s crying and he doesn’t think he’s ever going to stop now, not like this, not when he’s so emotionally exhausted and Viktor is right here, trying to offer what support he can.

“Please don’t cry,” Viktor begs, a little bit desperately, and the request is so late that it’s almost stupidly funny.  Yuuri laughs a slightly hysterical, tearful laugh and clutches at Viktor’s shirt.

“I—I think it’s a l-little late for th-that,” he manages, while Viktor hugs him tighter.  “Sorry.”

“No, it’s—I just never know what to _do_ when someone is crying,” Viktor explains, apologetic and confused and kind of panicked.  “Oh, hell, how can I give you a speech on how I want you to trust me and open up if I don’t know what to do when you do?”

Yuuri laughs again, sniffling, and scrubs at his face with one hand, the other winding around Viktor’s neck.  “At least you’re trying,” he mumbles.  “That—that counts for a lot.”

“Oh, good.”  Relief is palpable in Viktor’s voice.  He pats Yuuri’s back.  “Are… you okay?”

Yuuri takes a shuddering breath, attempts to swallow the lump in his throat, and accepts that a few hot tears are still going to leak down his cheeks.  “I… I think I will be,” he answers honestly, taking another deep breath.  “Y-you don’t have to feel like you n-need to make me stop crying, you know.  It—it makes me feel b-better, sometimes.”

“But I don’t want to be the _reason_ you’re crying,” Viktor protests.  “It makes me feel bad!”

“Just—just give me a minute,” Yuuri requests, trying to force himself to breathe evenly.  He nestles his head into the crook of Viktor’s neck, and Viktor leans his cheek against his hair, which is—nice.  It’s nice.  Viktor is warm and comforting, even as Yuuri becomes more aware of the fact that he’s curled up in Viktor’s lap and that maybe this should be a little bit awkward, but… but it isn’t.  It just feels good to be held.  This close, he can feel Viktor’s heartbeat, can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, and it’s soothing.

He takes another deep breath in and wills himself to think about good things—Viktor isn’t mad at him, Viktor knows about Yuuri’s anxiety now, Viktor trusts him and wants to be trusted.  Viktor is well-meaning if a little insensitive at times, as was made painfully clear earlier today…

…Which brings him back to that whole thing again.

_And if he wasn’t what I or what Ruthenia wanted, I would have already broken off my engagement._

Hm.

“Viktor?” he asks hesitantly.

“Yes?”

“…Earlier,” he starts, and then stops, bites his lip, and has to wipe at his eyes again.  Maybe… maybe that tea will help?  He hesitates in reaching for it, though, because he’ll have to stand up and pull away from Viktor, and he doesn’t _want_ to pull away yet, not when being held and comforted is so soothing and calming and _good_.  But then again, the tea will be cold and his throat will be dry.

He frets a moment longer before getting up and reaching across the coffee table to grab his mug, and when he turns around, Viktor is rearranging himself in the armchair.  Yuuri hesitates again and starts to head back to the couch, but Viktor catches the blanket still draped around his shoulders and asks, “Where are you going?”

“Oh,” Yuuri says, and he lets Viktor gently pull him back down into his embrace, sitting against the opposite shoulder this time.

“Sorry,” Viktor says lightly.  “My leg was getting kind of numb.  Anyway, what were you saying about earlier?”

Yuuri blinks.  He takes a sip of tea and cradles the warm mug to his chest, leaning against Viktor again, and sighs.  “Earlier, when you said… if I wasn’t—if I wasn’t what you wanted, you’d have broken off the engagement?”

Viktor stills against him.  “Yes?”

“Are… are you going to do that now?” Yuuri asks weakly.  “Because I’m—I’m like this, I guess.  And because I didn’t tell you sooner, and I know I can’t possibly be—”

He stops talking in surprise when he feels a chuckle rumble in Viktor’s chest.

“Yuuri,” Viktor sighs, “you almost sound as if you’re _trying_ to make me break it off.”  He pauses.  “Though… you said you want to go back.  …Are you?  Trying to make me break it off, I mean?  Is it too much for you after all?”

“No!”  Yuuri shakes his head vehemently.  “No, I don’t—no, I definitely don’t want to break off our engagement—that would mean renegotiating the terms of the alliance and having to do that again would probably weaken it, but—aside from that it’s not like I don’t want to do this anymore, I knew what I was getting into when I first signed that paper!  I’m just—I’m not good enough!  And I got—I got really upset earlier, with _myself_ , because I thought I fooled you into thinking that I am.”

Viktor is quiet for a moment.  Yuuri takes another few careful sips of tea to avoid having to look at him.

“I—I’m not saying that to try to make you justify anything to me,” he blurts out after a moment, worried that Viktor is trying to find a way to let him down gently and to reveal that it’s true, Yuuri _isn’t_ good enough, without being hurtful.  “I just—I thought you deserved to know what happened.  That’s all.”

“Yuuri,” Viktor sighs. “ _Yuuri_.  Did it ever occur to you that you _are_ good enough, and the only one being fooled is you, telling yourself that you are not?”

Yuuri opens his mouth, ready to refute that immediately, and then realizes the words aren’t there, so he closes it again.  “It’s… easier to believe it’s the other way around,” he says lamely instead.  “The idea that I’m the only one who hates me seems too good to be true.”

“Why?” Viktor asks, bewildered.  “You don’t seem worthy of hate to me.  I think you’re lovely, Yuuri.”

“That’s… thank you, but—it’s just.  Hard.  I’ve been—the ‘why’ is a question I don’t know the answer to, yet,” Yuuri sighs.  That brings him to another thing.  “I… was working on it, with a therapist, back in Hinomoto,” he admits quietly.  “Mari even told me I should find someone here to talk to about all this, and also to renew my prescription for anxiety medicine, but I just… I kept lying to myself and saying it would be fine, until it _wasn’t_ fine, and everything happened too fast.  That’s… that’s my fault again.  I’m sorry.”

Viktor hums in thought.  “So… do you want to find a therapist now?” he asks.  “I can try to help with that, if you’d like.”

Yuuri almost bursts into tears again at the offer.  “You—really?  You mean it?” he asks, wide-eyed, because finding new therapists is definitely his _least_ favorite part of the therapy process, and it’s frustrating and upsetting and scary and god, he hates it.  “You’d—you wouldn’t mind?”

Viktor looks a little alarmed.  “Please don’t cry again!” he exclaims, frantically patting Yuuri’s shoulder.  “It’s okay!  I’d be happy to help, I just want you to be open with me, this is what friends do, yes?  Helping each other?”

“Well, yes,” Yuuri says, smiling a little at Viktor’s anxious reassurances.  It’s kind of endearing, really.  “But it—it still means a lot to me, to hear you say that.  Thank you, Viktor.”

“Of course!” Viktor says, relieved.  “We can start looking tomorrow, if you’d like?”

“That… sounds good, I think,” Yuuri says.  “Do we have time tomorrow?  There’s the court session in the morning, and in the evening there’s that state dinner.  I guess we could do it in the afternoon…”

“We’ll squeeze it in somewhere,” Viktor promises.  “Don’t worry about it for now.”

“Okay,” Yuuri says.  He’s tired and all too willing to ignore things that could potentially be worrying.  It’s much easier to just lean against Viktor and sip his tea and pretend there is nothing beyond this moment.

“What else can I do?” Viktor asks, a minute or two later, when Yuuri is just starting to think about how close they are again.  It’s a nice, comfortable closeness, and he feels like he could grow to get used to being held like this.

“What do you mean, what else?” he asks.

“Like… earlier, what should I have done?”  There’s something analytical in his tone now, like he’s replaying the scene in his mind and poking and prodding at all the different possibilities.  “I doubt you would have told me you were feeling anxious in front of the Baroness, so in the future, if something like that happens, I’ll try to watch my words, but I might still not know… what should I do to be better, Yuuri?”

Yuuri bites his lip again, absently chewing at the chapped skin in thought.  “Um… maybe I should find a way to let you know,” he suggests softly.  “Like, a code word or something to just tell you I feel bad?  So if I say it randomly, it might not mean anything to anyone else, but you’d know?”

“Yeah, that sounds good!” Viktor agrees.  “You might have to smack me if I forget it a few times, just in case.  I can have a terrible memory sometimes.  What word should it be?”

“Good question,” Yuuri mutters, looking around the room for inspiration.  It shouldn’t be a word he uses too often, but it also shouldn’t be one that would be completely out of the blue, right?  Something super weird would be more notable to anyone listening to their conversation, and he wants it to be unobtrusive…

“I know!” Viktor announces.  “Katsudon!”

“Katsudon?” Yuuri repeats, wrinkling his nose.  “Why katsudon?”

“Because,” Viktor chirps, confident and assured in his brilliance, “I already associate it with you, _and_ it’s your comfort food!  So if I ask you how the katsudon level is, from one to ten, the one-to-ten scale is really just telling me how much comfort you need!”

He sounds so pleased with himself that Yuuri can’t find it within himself to say no.  Besides, it’s not like he has any other ideas, and this entire thing is mostly to help Viktor help Yuuri anyway.  So if he wants to use “katsudon” as their code word…

“Sure,” Yuuri says.  “That works.”

“Wonderful,” Viktor hums.  “So how’s the katsudon index right now?”

Yuuri feels a smile tug at his lips due to the pure ridiculity of the phrase.  “Maybe around a five,” he answers, tucking his head into the crook of Viktor’s neck again.  “It was probably a nine earlier.”

“Not a ten?” Viktor asks, sounding surprised. 

Yuuri lets out a dry laugh.  “I probably will never actually call it a ten,” he says, “because I’ll always be telling myself, _especially_ when I’m distressed, that it could be worse and I need to get over it.”

“Oh,” Viktor says.  “Hm.  Okay.  I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Yeah,” Yuuri agrees.  “…Thank you for doing all this.”

Viktor sighs, any remaining levity draining from his voice.  “You’re welcome,” he answers.  “I just… I never want today to repeat itself, Yuuri.  I was terrified when I couldn’t find you earlier.  I kept thinking about how I promised you I’d keep you safe, and how bitter the irony would be if you got hurt or even killed after you ran away because of something I said.  I know the palace grounds are generally pretty safe, but I couldn’t help but worry.”

“Viktor,” Yuuri breathes, taking one hand from his teacup to wrap it around his fiancé’s waist.  Guilt gnaws at him.  “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s… it’s alright,” Viktor says.  “I don’t think it was really either of our faults.  It just happened, and was rather unfortunate.  But nothing bad ultimately came of it, and you and I had a nice talk, right?”

“Yeah,” Yuuri agrees.  “So… just checking, but, um.  We’re okay, right?”

Viktor smiles a tired but genuine smile down at him.  “If by okay you mean we’re still engaged and we’ve also established what I hope is a mutual trust, then yes, I think we’re okay.”

“I trust you,” Yuuri mumbles, and… it’s true.  After tonight, he _does_ trust Viktor.  Having a panic attack in front of someone and then being consoled about it tends to make him trust that person, he supposes, and in the end it was pretty much squarely his fault that all of this happened.

“Thank you,” Viktor murmurs in response.  “I’m glad to hear it.”

They sit together in silence for another few minutes.  Yuuri finishes his tea but doesn’t set the mug aside, because that would mean moving away again, and there’s no need for that.  He just stays there, head comfortably nestled against Viktor’s neck, and closes his tired eyes.

(Later, he wakes up just as Viktor is laying him down in his bed and realizes, vaguely, that he must have fallen asleep on him.  But he doesn’t bother dwelling on that for long, much more content to sigh and sink into the pillows, soft and deep, even though they lack the warmth of Viktor's touch.)

(“Good night, Yuuri,” Viktor whispers, leaning down to kiss his forehead.  “Sleep well.”)

(He does.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i ... guess i should just ... give up on the whole ... "6k to 7k or so is a good chapter length to shoot for" thing ... this was literally 16.7k why am i like this
> 
> anyway, story notes!
> 
> 1\. alright so while writing this chapter i ran into the difficulties of goddamn gendered language. lairde sokolova is a genderfluid background character from a noble house, if that wasn’t clear; i did some research about gender-neutral terms for “lord/lady” and “lairde” was the best one i found (it’s both a portmanteau and also a derivative of scottish “laird” which was a mostly gender-neutral term for a landowner), and then i just… went with the feminine form of the surname, primarily because i regrettably do not know russian well enough to know if there is a neutral derivative form. if anyone has any input on that please let me know!! :0
> 
> 2\. i am a big fan of _platonic_ cuddling and this probably doesn't need to be said, but i just want to make it clear there will be no romance with yurio in this fic, especially not with yuuri!!!!! yuuri is his big bro or his dad… his brad, if you will…
> 
> 3\. in case it isn't obvious, some characters (i.e. minami) have been aged up. this is because i wanted to include him but what are the odds of such a small nugget being a diplomat? he's still pretty young for the post imo but here he's around 20-21ish, so like, phichit's age, instead of being small and 17. 
> 
> 4\. the chapter title came from [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1stxUqNJINE) gorgeous song. i have lots of favorite hurt/comfort songs and this is definitely at the top of the list. 
> 
> 5\. thank you all, so, _so_ much for the well-wishes and support, i cannot overstate how much each and every one of those comments meant to me. you guys are so kind, thank you so much. i won't lie, it's been a kind of terrible week, but the comments you all left me were definitely bright points. no joke, sometimes the first thing i did in the morning as soon as i turned off my alarm was check my email to see if i had any notifications because that legitimately made me feel better, haha. so thank you guys again. i'm gonna start trying to reply to your comments more bc they mean a Lot  <3
> 
> yall should come chat w me on [tumblr](http://www.adreamingsongbird.tumblr.com) !!! i feel like my friends are all super tired of me talking about this au haha
> 
> next time: an exercise in trust, a study in strategy, and a seemingly clear sky.


	6. settle in, my dear, and make this place a home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri gets more comfortable in the Ruthenian court. The Crispino twins of Víteliú arrive.

[10:49] Beka:  
Thought you might enjoy this  
_[file sent:_[ _showyura.mp4_](https://www.instagram.com/p/BLU4rNcDoEz/) _]_

[10:51] Yuri Plisetsky:  
OH MY GOD

* * *

“You don’t have to wait for me every time, you know,” Yuuri says, oddly touched to see Viktor lounging in the uncomfortable plastic waiting room chair, which he specifically asked to have brought to a secluded corner in the back of the clinic just so that Yuuri wouldn’t have to worry about the press seeing him in the waiting room of a therapist’s office and asking questions.  It’s a little funny and more than a little endearing, the way Viktor idly reclines in a cheap plastic chair almost the same way he sprawls in the throne at his mother’s side.  Makkachin is curled up quietly at his feet.

He looks up now, seeing Yuuri’s approach, and his face lights up, while Makkachin sits up and noses at Yuuri’s knees.  “I don’t have to,” he agrees, “but I’d like to, so I will.”

“I should never have told you it makes me feel better,” Yuuri sighs, only half-serious, and shakes his head as he bends down to pet Makkachin properly.  Viktor rises with fluid grace and smiles down at him, taking his hand (he does this so easily, now, and Yuuri sometimes forgets he hasn’t always been so used to it).

“But it _does_ make you feel better, doesn’t it?”

Another sigh.  “It does,” he admits, squeezing Viktor’s hand slightly.  “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Viktor says, squeezing back.  “So, how did it go?  Are you feeling okay today?”

Side-by-side, they start to walk down the hallway, heading to the small, discreet private exit on the side of the clinic building.  In nondescript clothes and with sunshades, they’re hard to recognize, and even if photos do turn up, there’d be no real proof of it being either of them, which doesn’t do a whole lot to get rid of Yuuri’s anxiety, but it helps.  A little.

“I’m alright,” he answers, shrugging.  “We just… talked.  It was good.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Viktor answers, humming.  He swings their joined hands as they walk, cheerful today, and it makes Yuuri smile too.  Therapy definitely helps him, but sometimes the minutes right after each session can feel lonely, like he had to cut himself off from something good and he’s been cast adrift to fend for himself again, which is why having Viktor here as soon as he gets out is … nice.

It’s incredible, how much having a space to just talk out all his fears is helping him.  It’s like in the months he went without it, he forgot just how much better it made him feel.  He’s glad he’s finally doing it again, even though it’s only been four weeks since he’s started.

They wind up walking down the street, still hand-in-hand, and Yuuri lets himself relax a little bit.  It’s a beautiful day, the early summer sky a brilliant blue, spotted here and there with fluffy clouds.  And sure, there might be a few people around, here and there, but it’s okay, mostly.  Even if they do get recognized, it’ll be fine.

“Do you want to stop for lunch?” Viktor asks, breaking into his thoughts, and Yuuri hesitates, processing the question, and then shrugs.

“Maybe a snack for me?” he says. “I’m not super hungry yet, but… maybe we could get something from a café and sit outside and eat?  It’s very nice out here today.”

Viktor stops walking and beams.  “We can do that!”  He looks around at the small shops all around them, pensive and thoughtful.  “Do you see any cafés in particular you want to go to?  Should we just experiment and try something new?  I don’t come to this particular street that often, so I don’t have any favorites in the immediate area.  Looks like we’re in for a surprise!  How exciting!”

It’s funny, Yuuri thinks dryly to himself, that what he considers terrifying—uncertainty—is what Viktor finds charming and _exciting_.

Well, at least it means there’s one of them who’s always going to be prepared for this kind of thing.  And by that, Yuuri means that he himself is probably going to have to make sure he’s ready for some kind of spontaneous adventure at all times.  Just because Viktor has never hauled him outside at two in the morning to stargaze yet doesn’t mean he never will.

“I guess we’re experimenting,” he agrees, peering around.  “Maybe… do you see the one across the street?  It has a pink sign and those pastries in the window?”

Viktor nods.  “That looks good!” he grins.  “Let’s go try it.”

* * *

 

— Group Message [Katsudon, Babacheva, Bore-gi, Stupid Viktor] —

[10:52] Yuri Plisetsky:  
look at this RIGHT NOW  
_[file sent:_[ _aaaaa.mp4_](https://www.instagram.com/p/BLU4rNcDoEz/) _]_

* * *

 

And that’s how Yuuri finds himself sitting in the grass in the park half an hour later, with a dog, a warm tea latte, and a chocolate-filled croissant at his side, and with Viktor’s head in his lap as his fiancé cloud-gazes, pointing out what he thinks different clouds are shaped like. 

“Are we just ignoring the paparazzi for now?” Yuuri asks, resisting the urge to run his fingers through Viktor’s hair.  He’s quite familiar with Viktor’s habit of being ridiculously touchy-feely, but it still seems like a breach of some sort of etiquette on his part, touching his hair without permission, no matter how soft it looks.  And besides, the paparazzi are _right there_.  They’re keeping some distance, but this is a public park, and Viktor and Yuuri aren’t really hiding, so…

“Yup!” Viktor says cheerfully.  “Don’t worry, there’s nothing incriminating about two people who are engaged spending time together at a park.  Wanna give them something _really_ worth looking at?”

“ _No_ ,” Yuuri says firmly.  “I don’t know what idea you just had, but we’re not doing it in public.”

“But _Yuuri_ ,” Viktor wheedles, eyes twinkling.  Yuuri ignores the flutter in his stomach that’s an unfortunate side-effect of having the full force of that dazzling grin directed unequivocally at him, shaking his head instead.

“I said, _no_.”

Viktor laughs, and good lord, that’s even worse than the grin!

(It is very unfortunate, Yuuri has discovered, when one knows someone who is unfairly attractive, and _then_ that someone worms their way into one’s trust and makes himself at home under the label of _a friend_ , because all that does is make him even more attractive and also removes some of one’s original inhibitions about finding him attractive, such as _it’s purely aesthetic and I barely know him_ and _I don’t know if I trust him anyway so I’m safe—I can admire his appearance and keep my personal distance_.)

(Very, very unfortunate.)

“You also said you don’t even know what I was planning, though,” Viktor protests, drawing him out of his thoughts.  Yuuri fervently hopes he isn’t blushing and hurriedly stuffs the last of his croissant into his mouth to give him an excuse not to speak.  “It was something perfectly harmless!”

Mouth full of croissant, all Yuuri can do is level a skeptical glance down at that bright smile.

“Oh, ye of _little faith_ ,” Viktor sighs, dramatically pressing the back of his hand to his forehead as if he feels faint.  “I’m _wounded_.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Yuuri points out, stifling a laugh.  “What was your plan, then?”

Viktor shakes his head.  “Now I can’t tell you.  You’ve hurt me too deeply.  I don’t think I can carry on.”  He rolls over, off Yuuri’s lap, and buries his face in Makkachin’s fur, and lets out the most melodramatic sigh Yuuri has ever heard.

“Alright,” Yuuri says.  “Then that’s fine.  Don’t tell me.”

He sips his coffee again—it’s almost cold, so he really ought to just finish it—and waits.  It really is beautiful out here, he thinks, closing his eyes to enjoy the feeling of the dappled sunlight as it filters through the tree above them and onto his face.

Of course, being out in public means never fully letting his guard down, especially not with the ever-present risk of assassination, so he opens them again not too much later, looking around to make sure nothing has changed and nobody is approaching them.  He doesn’t see anything suspicious, but does catch sight of someone else surreptitiously taking pictures of them while trying to act natural, and sighs.

There is nothing wrong with two people who are engaged having lunch together in a park, even if they are princes.  It’s a weekend, and they have the day off.  He knows this, but his anxiety still spikes, and he finds himself having to take deep breaths.  Perhaps he should have forgone the coffee in lieu of tea today.

“Yuuri?”

Viktor’s hand slips into his easily, and Yuuri looks down, startled.  “Oh,” he says, looking at their joined hands in the grass.  “Yes?”

“You looked kind of far away for a moment,” Viktor says.  “A penny for your thoughts?”

Yuuri laughs softly, humorlessly, and shakes his head.  “Nothing important,” he murmurs.  “I was just… fretting.  That’s all.”

“Would you prefer if we went back to the palace?” Viktor asks, his thumb rubbing soothing, slow circles over the base of Yuuri’s.

Yuuri hesitates.  Part of him wants to lie down in the grass too, wants to roll over and just bury his face in Viktor’s shoulder and hide in the blissful feeling of security that comes from being held, wants to continue basking in the early summer sunshine without having to worry, and if he was with Phichit and at home, he knows he would.  But out in public with Viktor is… different.

They’re friends, yes.  But it still feels like Yuuri is testing the waters of their relationship as it grows, never quite sure where the boundaries lie and never wanting to cross them inadvertently.  The teasing and the friendly banter—that’s all relatively new.  And the element of knowing that every picture taken today could easily end up on the internet doesn’t help much with his worries.

Yeah, okay, the paparazzi is stressing him out.  “Yes, please,” he says softly, and Viktor nods, sitting up.  Makkachin, dozing, yawns and lifts his head as they gather their leftover trash and get to their feet.

“Are you alright?” Viktor asks, taking Yuuri’s hand again as they start walking, tossing the empty cups and paper bag in a trash can on the way.

“Just a little nervous,” Yuuri admits, keeping his gaze fixed on the sidewalk.  He leans his head against Viktor’s shoulder, just for a moment, and Viktor squeezes his hand in response.

“It’ll be alright,” he says, the oldest line in the book, and Yuuri almost laughs at how cliché it is, but at least he’s making an effort.  That’s sweet of him.  “You know, there’s a botanical garden in Petersburg.  Would you like to go sometime?  Maybe next weekend?”

A botanical garden—just like the park, but more private.  Yuuri has _missed_ gardens, gardens like the ones he grew up with.  He can think of nothing he’d like better.  “I’d love to,” he says.  “Thank you.”

* * *

[12:03] ice ice baby:  
Can you please ask Yura why he blocked me this time????  I don’t think I did anything????

[12:05] Mila:  
…he says you weren’t excited enough about the cat video he sent in the group chat.

[12:05] ice ice baby:  
………………………………………okay.  
(´-ι_-｀)

* * *

Yuuri is having lunch with Lord Popovich when he receives the most terrifying message he’s ever gotten in his life.  It leaves him staring at his phone, petrified, with ice coursing through his veins instead of blood, as his heart pounds painfully hard.

It must show in his face, because Lord Popovich clears his throat politely and inquires, “Is everything alright, Prince Katsuki?”

Yuuri raises his head, eyes wide.

“Um,” he says.  “I have just been invited to have tea with the Queen this Saturday.”

“ _Ah_ ,” Lord Popovich says, understanding.  Sympathy blooms in his eyes, perhaps along with relief, relief that Yuuri is still calm and breathing and not running away.  All of the others have treated him a bit more delicately since his panic attack and subsequent snowy misadventure, and while Yuuri can’t say he doesn’t understand why they’re doing it, he has to admit he wishes they _wouldn’t_.  He hates being treated like he’s made of glass.  “I wish you the best of luck.”

Yuuri laughs awkwardly.  “Thank you,” he says.  “I will probably need it.”

“If it’s any consolation,” Lord Popovich offers, “she’s really not as bad as she seems.”

Another awkward laugh, as Yuuri fights down his nervousness and types out a reply in the affirmative, that of _course_ he’s free and he would be delighted—wait, no, he’d be _honored_ to join Her Majesty for tea.  “Well, I’m sure it’ll be fine,” he says, squaring his shoulders and forcing a smile as he once again puts his phone aside.

“As am I,” Lord Popovich says, nodding.  “Would you rather we talk about something else, though?  I know Queen Nikiforova can be rather, ah, forceful.  It’s perfectly fine to be nervous, you know.”

“Talking about something else sounds wonderful,” Yuuri decides.  Lord Popovich, like the others in what Yuuri has come to see as their group, knows Yuuri has anxiety (of _course_ he knows, after last month), but Viktor is the only one Yuuri has actually talked to about it in depth, so far, and right now he’d rather keep it that way.  He’ll tell the rest more eventually, but right now taking it slowly sounds less overwhelming.

“Alright!  Well, in that case, I can think of a much, much nicer topic,” Lord Popovich smiles.  He rests his chin on one hand and lets out a dreamy sigh.  “Have you spoken much with Anya yet?  Ah—that is, Lady Ryabova.  She really is something out of this world…”

(Yuuri doesn’t really do much talking for the rest of their luncheon, but that’s alright.  He’s never minded listening.)

* * *

[14:08] angry kitten princeling:  
im bored and its friday lets go spar

[14:08] Mila:  
sorry I can’t right now!!! helping prep for the Crispino twins’ arrival

[14:09] angry kitten princeling:  
“helping prep” wow transparent, u mean avoiding prep work to text/flirt with the princess lmao

[14:09] Mila:  
Don’t give me that kind of talk, I am both productive AND gay  
(…unlike some people we know?)

[14:10] angry kitten princeling:  
ill forgive u for skipping out on spar day bc u threw shade at viktor lmao

[14:11] Mila:  
I’m honestly not sure how Yuuri is so oblivious when Viktor is so… uh…

[14:11] angry kitten princeling:  
extra as fuck about the fact that he definitely has a crush and won’t fucking shut up?

[14:12] Mila:  
Yup.  That.

[14:12] angry kitten princeling:  
i have no idea either and it makes me mad bc im p sure if he noticed then viktor would STOP

[14:13] Mila:  
Lol

[14:13] angry kitten princeling:  
anyway im still bored tho  
oh wait i just had an idea. bye

* * *

Katsudon is not in his rooms.

Well, either that, or he’s in there but he’s ignoring Yuri at his door, which would make him a rude piece of shit, and since Yuri is a paragon of politeness, he’s going to assume that Katsudon is _not_ a rude piece of shit because assuming the worst is rude or whatever.  Anyway, the point is, Katsudon isn’t answering his door.

That’s annoying.  That’s really annoying.  Mila’s busy with court things like the minutia of the ceremonies to welcome the Crispinos (should the tablecloths be eggshell or white, who fucking cares), Georgi is swooning over Anya (her smile is so beautiful, _who fucking cares_ ), and Viktor is supposedly with the Queen right now, so where the hell would Katsudon be?  Yuri swears, if Viktor actually whisked him away to go on yet another date, he’s going to kick his cousin down the stairs.

Well.

If he can’t find Katsudon, there’s nothing for it—maybe he should just go try and Skype Beka or something.  See if that invitation to visit Qazrazi in autumn is still open.  Ugh, typical—he has a day off and everyone else is _busy_.  What’s he supposed to do, all the work his tutors assigned?  Fat fucking chance!

“Prince Yuri?”

Yuri whirls on his heel to see none other than Katsudon himself, looking surprised to see Yuri in front of his own door.  He looks like he just got back from … something athletic?  Yoga maybe, those look like yoga pants.  But he’s not carrying a mat, so who knows.

Anyway, that’s not important.

“Do you know how to use a sword?” Yuri demands, folding his arms across his chest.  “I’m bored and I haven’t sparred in a while.  You’re not busy now, are you?”

“Um—well, Viktor was planning on—but that’s later, so… no, I’m not busy, right now,” Katsudon says, shaking his head.  He blinks owlishly behind his glasses.  “I know _some_ swordplay, but to be honest, I learned a lot more about how to use knives.  They’re easier to conceal and are therefore more practical for self-defense in a lot of the scenarios that I’m likely to encounter.”

“Concealed weapons?” Yuri snorts.  “Sounds shady, Katsudon.”

Katsudon laughs.  “I learned from a shadow enchanter assassin, so you could definitely say that.”

Yuri’s eyes go wide despite all his intentions to appear unflappable.  “You know shadow magic?” he demands, shocked.  _That_ never really seemed like a Katsudon thing at all!  “You learned from one of the _shadow assassins_?”

“Oh, no, I don’t know much shadow magic at all, except for a little of the basics that I learned more or less through osmosis from him,” Katsudon quickly clarifies, shaking his head.  “I learned self-defense from a shadow assassin, though.  If you’ve heard of the shadow guild that runs out of Xian, he’s part of it.”

 _If_.  Of _course_ Yuri’s heard of that guild—everyone worth their salt who’s ever even considered hiring an assassin knows about the shadow guilds.  The one based in Xian is one of the most infamous, most high-quality, and therefore most expensive to hire.  Not that Yuri’s ever had to have someone assassinated, of course, but he _has_ been curious about how it all works, so he’s looked into it.

Anyway, the point is, he’s kind of reevaluating his idea of Katsudon as soft and harmless and delicate.  He learned from someone in the most renowned shadow guild out there?  _Damn._

“You… look surprised,” Katsudon observes, his deductions brilliant as ever.  Yuri scoffs.

“I just didn’t think you had something like that in you,” he sniffs.  “You _look_ like a fucking pansy, anyway.”

Katsudon actually laughs at that.  “Well, that’s to my advantage, don’t you think?  People are more likely to underestimate me if they think I’m not a threat.  But don’t worry, I’m really not that great in a fight anyway.”  He comes closer, reaches past Yuri, and opens his door.  “You can come in if you want, by the way—I just need to put my bag away.”

“Where’ve you even been?  I was _waiting_ on you,” Yuri grumbles, following him into the sitting room.  He waits by the couch while Katsudon heads into his bedroom and deposits his bag, then returns.

“Dancing!” he answers, beaming.  It’s the most genuine smile Yuri has seen on him since they’ve met, probably.  Huh, he must really love dancing.  “Have you ever done ballet, Prince Yuri?”

“Some,” Yuri answers.  “I used to when I was younger, but I stopped when I moved to Petersburg.”

“I see,” Katsudon says.  “You took up sparring, though?”

Yuri shrugs.  “It’s a thing we do here, I guess.  It’s like… tradition.  Everyone learns some form of swordplay.  Viktor, that dick, has been the undefeated champion every time we’ve had a tournament for like five or so years.  I’m gonna kick his ass soon, though.”

Katsudon considers that for a moment, and honestly, he should go back to acting like he does in court, because right now he’s not bothering to hide his emotions that much, and Yuri’s pretty sure he can pinpoint the exact moment when Katsudon goes from thinking about Viktor having technical skill with a blade to whether his imaginary Viktor looks more attractive with a sword and a gold trophy, and he kind of wants to throw up.

 _“Anyway_ ,” he says, and Katsudon blinks.  “How the hell did you of all people end up learning self-defense from a shadow assassin?  Did your parents pay him a shitton to teach you or something?”

Katsudon gets a fond smile on his face.  “Not quite,” he laughs.  “More like my parents took him in when he ran away from his family home, and he continued studying from under our roof and taught me things as he did.  He got really good too!  He enchanted a knife for me before I came here, actually—oh, I left it in my bag, hang on.”

 _Katsudon’s_ been carrying a _knife_?

It’s not unheard of for nobility to carry ceremonial weapons, but again, the concept of Katsudon of all people doing it?  Yuri blinks and stares after him, aghast, as he ducks into the bedroom again before emerging with a small, unobtrusive knife in a subtly decorated, elegant black sheath.  It looks very plain and ordinary, albeit obviously made from high-quality materials, but _something_ about it is off-putting.

“What kind of enchantment?” he asks, frowning at it.  Katsudon seems used to its aura by now, holding it easily, and just shrugs.

“I actually don’t know,” he says.  “When I asked him what it does, he just looked at me and said that he hoped I would never have to find out.”

“That’s sketchy as hell, Katsudon,” Yuri mutters.  “I’m still weirded out that you of all people actually know how to use a knife in a fight.”  It had seemed much more likely that Katsudon would be the type of person to run away—it’s not that he looks totally helpless or anything (Yuri has seen him in court, and he’s probably just as good at the political games as Viktor), but he just… never struck Yuri as the type to learn _actual_ fighting.  He wasn’t sure that Katsudon would know ceremonial things like swordplay, let alone shadow-assassin-styled _knife_ fighting.  He just looks like a harmless puppy or something.

Katsudon just laughs sheepishly and shrugs.  “Well, when you’re a prince, you have to learn _some_ kind of self defense, right?”

“…Yeah,” Yuri says, supposing that a harmless puppy appearance _would_ be to one’s benefit in a fight—element of surprise and getting an enemy to underestimate you and all that.  Then he shakes his head.  “Anyway, I don’t actually care, but if you’re halfway decent with that thing, come spar with me.  I need a partner and everyone else is busy.”

Katsudon considers it.  “Well,” he says, “alright.  Are there practice blades somewhere?”

Yuri scoffs.  “Of course, do you think I wanna spar with sharpened swords?  No, stupid, come on.”

(It’s a little funny.  As spring has started melting into summer and Katsudon’s presence in Ruthenia has become less of an anomaly and more of a given, Yuri has become less and less worried about maintaining perfect manners around him.  Insults are his preferred mode of communication, and Katsudon never even told on him for the time at the beach, when Yuri called him an idiot, so Yuri has to give him some measure of grudging respect.)

“I’m coming!” Katsudon says.  “Just let me get some contact lenses in.  Sparring with glasses tends to end badly, in my experience.”

“Yeah, yeah, hurry up,” Yuri rolls his eyes.  “I don’t have all day, Katsudon!”

“Really?  I thought you had the day off,” Katsudon says over his shoulder as he heads to the bathroom.  Yuri considers throwing one of the pillows from his couch at him.

“Don’t be a smartass!”

Katsudon just hums in response, and Yuri flops over onto the couch to wait on him.  He’s actually kind of looking forward to sparring now—not that he wasn’t looking forward to it earlier, it’s just that he assumed he’d be kicking Katsudon’s ass into next month, which as a concept certainly has its own charms but wouldn’t help him achieve his ultimate goal, which is practicing hard against a decent opponent (like Mila, his usual partner) so that he can make sure he’s good enough to kick _Viktor’s_ ass into next month, when the tournament starts in autumn.

But it looks like Katsudon is just full of surprises, huh?

Wait, no, no ew ew ew that’s what Viktor said about him, albeit with more heart emojis and _ugh_ nope no goodbye, Yuri is _not_ thinking about this.  Viktor is annoying and he knows it.  Georgi says he does it because he thinks it’s funny that Yuri always blows up at him, but _still_ , he’s annoying and it’s worth yelling at him for.

…Although… Yuri will admit, if only in the privacy of his own mind and _maybe_ to Beka if asked several times while tipsy, that Viktor has seemed genuinely happier with Katsudon around, and since Katsudon came here, Viktor has been spending more time with all of them, not just cutting himself off to constantly sharpen his edges into the perfect prince all the time.

It’s… been nice.

Not that he’ll ever tell either Katsudon or Viktor that he appreciates them, of course.  That’d be stupid and sappy and he might end up sounding like them, the _horror_.

“Okay!” Katsudon’s chirpy voice draws him out of his thoughts, and he sits up.  Katsudon is waiting, contacts in and sport bag on his shoulder again.  “Ready to go?”

Yuri vaults to his feet and grins. “Ready to eat dirt, Katsudon?”

“That doesn’t sound particularly appetizing,” Katsudon says, wrinkling his nose.  Yuri rolls his eyes.  Katsudon’s command of Ruthenian is almost but not quite impeccable, given the years he’s spent learning it, but some phrases, particularly idiomatic expressions, still trip him up.

“Idiom.”

 “Oh,” Katsudon says.  “Right.”

“Yeah,” Yuri says.  “Okay, whatever.  Just come on already.”

Maybe he’ll unblock Viktor later just to text him “guess who just kicked your fiancé’s ass”.  That should be funny.

* * *

“Is something troubling you?”

Yuuri looks up from his book, brow furrowed, to see Viktor on the other end of the couch, watching him with a curious, slightly fond smile.  He blinks.

“What makes you ask that?”

Viktor laughs.  “You haven’t turned a page in the past six minutes.  Either you found one passage _really_ engrossing, or you’re not actually reading.”

Yuuri blinks again, returning from his world of thought and nervousness.  Perhaps this is a good conversation to be having—surely Viktor of all people can offer some reassurance.  “Oh,” he says.  “I guess I wasn’t.  I was thinking.”

“About what?” Viktor asks, tilting his head to one side inquisitively.  It makes some of his hair fall forward over his eye, and Yuuri has an urge to lean over and tuck it aside, but that would probably be weird, so he doesn’t.  He still thinks about it, though.

“I’m just… a little nervous,” he says instead.

Viktor’s reaction is immediate—he sits up straighter, eyes narrowed, and leans forward slightly.  “Why?  What happened?  Did someone threaten you again?”

Well, now he just feels _silly._ Yuuri fidgets and squirms in his seat, blushing, and shakes his head, because no, that’s not it at all.  “No, no, nothing like that!” he says, swallowing hard.  “You’ll probably laugh at me.”

“I will _not_ ,” Viktor disagrees, as if he’s affronted at the very idea.  He relaxes again, though, sitting back against the armrest and folding his arms across his chest.  “Why would I ever do that?”

“Because!”  Yuuri buries his face in his hands to hide the persistent flush in his cheeks.

“That’s not an answer,” Viktor prods.

“I’m having tea with your mother today and I’m _nervous_ ,” Yuuri sighs into his palms.  “She intimidates me.”

There’s a pause.

“See?  You’re laughing at me, I _knew_ you would,” he starts to say, but then fabric rustles and the couch cushions dip and then his hands are being pried away from his face, and Viktor is grinning at him.

“I’m not laughing at you,” he says, and it’s only on a technicality that he’s right.  Suppressed laughter, however, surrounds him like a cloud of sunshine to Yuuri’s empathic senses.

“You reek of amusement,” Yuuri tells him, attempting to be jokingly cross but not succeeding because of the butterflies flitting to and fro in his stomach.

“I _promise_ she doesn’t want to grill you or anything,” Viktor says, not-so-subtly changing the subject.  Yuuri chooses to interpret this as a concession that he _was_ laughing.  “She just wants to get to know you.  And probably wants to talk to you about some stuff.”

“Some stuff?” Yuuri repeats.  “That’s not particularly reassuring.”

Viktor gives up and laughs, squeezing Yuuri’s hands.  “Look,” he says.  “She _likes_ you.  Don’t worry so much!”

Yuuri looks at him skeptically.  “Why would she like me?  She and I have barely had the chance to talk much at all, past the welcome banquet.”

Viktor waves a hand dismissively.  “Oh, she just does!  I guess it’s because you’re just a very likable person, Yuuri.”

“Hmm,” Yuuri doesn’t really respond, and they leave it at that.

* * *

Even the door to the Queen’s personal apartments is imposing.  It stands almost double Yuuri’s height, surrounded by intricate, gilt designs and with two guards posted on either side.  He glances at each of them once, smiles slightly and nods his greetings, before raising his hand to the golden doorknocker and rapping it against the door, twice.

After a heartbeat, the door slowly swings open.  Yuuri steels himself (how bad can it be?  Supposedly, the Queen likes him!) and walks forward, and the door closes behind him.

“Prince Katsuki,” Queen Nikiforova greets calmly, sitting on one of the couches in front of the coffee table in her sitting room.  There is a kettle full of presumably hot water, a selection of looseleaf teas, two cups, and a platter of assorted pastries on the table, and the knowing look in the Queen’s eyes leaves Yuuri with the feeling that every move he could possibly make has already been planned for. “Good to see you.  Please, have a seat.”

Yuuri attempts to drown his nerves in around three to four tons of projected calmness and quiet confidence and sits down on the sofa across from the Queen’s as gracefully as he can manage.  “Thank you for the invitation, Your Majesty,” he says politely.  “It’s an honor.”

Queen Nikiforova considers him for a moment, scanning him with a critical eye, and Yuuri does his best to remain impassive, smiling politely.  Did he already say something wrong?  Oh, god, she probably heard about his meltdown last month but only now got the time to call him in for a lecture about how he needs to get his life together before she will consider him fit to continue residing at her court—

“Viktor has told me quite a lot about you,” she says suddenly, and Yuuri swallows carefully.

“Has he?” he asks.  _Be confident but not cocky, be demure when you must and most of all be polite, but don’t show that you’re nervous!_   _And don’t be awkward, it shows and it’s painful._   He considers what he knows about crafting small talk, considers their relative positions as Ruling Queen and Prince Consort-To-Be, and figures it’s alright if he attempts a small crack at humor.  “Mostly good things, I hope.”

To his surprise, the Queen actually laughs, eyes twinkling merrily.  “Yes,” she says, “plenty of good things.  Frankly, Prince Katsuki, my son is rather enamored of you.”

 _Enamored?_ This conversation has rapidly moved into unfamiliar territory, and Yuuri feels rather off balance already.  Not good!

“Is he,” Yuuri says faintly.  How often does Viktor talk about him to the Queen?  Is this why she supposedly likes him?  Because Viktor talks him up all the time?  The thought is a little disconcerting.  What if he doesn’t live up to her expectations in reality?

“Quite,” the Queen assures him.  “Would you care for some tea?  These pastries are simply delightful, I find.”

Yuuri blinks and then numbly selects some of the pomegranate green tea offered, tipping a teaspoonful into an infuser and carefully settling it into his cup with practiced fingers before he pours boiling water from the kettle over it.  The Queen’s piercing gaze continues to bore into him as he selects one of the chocolate-glazed eclairs from the platter on the table and places it in his saucer, then settles back without actually taking a bite of it.

“Your Majesty?” he asks, seriously starting to wonder what he did wrong.  Queen Nikiforova continues to watch him for a moment.  “If I may be so bold… something tells me you did not invite me here simply to discuss the merits of chocolate versus strawberry fillings.”

“You would be correct,” she says.  “If you’d rather get down to it immediately, we can do that.  I have a few things to discuss with you, Prince Katsuki.  First, the subject of your magic.”

Yuuri holds himself steady purely because of years of practice.  Internally, he wants to flinch away, but doesn’t, instead just reaching for his teacup and holding it so that its warmth seeps through his hands comfortingly.  “What about my magic, exactly?”

“You have not explicitly told my court that you are an empath.”  It’s not a question but a statement, levelled over the brim of the Queen’s teacup.

“My apologies, Your Majesty,” Yuuri says immediately, fighting down a wave of horror so intense it feels like nausea.  She must think him manipulative, untrustworthy, and rude!  At home he preferred not to disclose his magic outside the family, but he should have considered that his own preferrence for privacy could have been interpreted as—

“I want you to keep it that way,” the Queen interrupts his thoughts, and his panicking, fretting brain stops abruptly.  He blinks, the only outward sign of his surprise.

“Um… I beg your pardon?”

“You wisely keep your status as an empath from most people, correct?” the Queen asks in a way that means it isn’t actually a question so much as an acknowledgment.  Yuuri nods but doesn’t speak, letting her continue.  “I thought as much.  Even Vityen'ka was unaware of your magic before he visited your family.”

“I don’t mean to keep secrets from you, Your Majesty,” Yuuri says carefully.  “However, if I may speak frankly, it’s… a lot safer, for me and for those around me, if I keep knowledge of my empathy from becoming common.  Only my family and closest friends know about it.  People would like to use it, and me, to their own ends, if I was more open about it.”

“Of course,” Queen Nikiforova agrees.  “Not to sound too cold to my future son-in-law, but I completely understand your concern about being used by people.  After all, I am going to be one of those people.”  Her smile is sharp, her blue eyes cold like ice.

Yuuri’s heart sinks like a stone.  So, this is what he will be dealing with—being used as a tool.  That’s just one more layer of icing on the cake—being far from home, having mental breakdowns, having to marry someone purely for political gains, and now this.  He’s always known he’s a pawn, in the grand game of things, but this is more direct than ever.

“If you could clarify, Your Majesty, I would appreciate that,” he says, keeping his voice steady and calm despite the resignation and dread that are pooling in equal measure in his stomach.  “What is it, exactly, that you want from me?”

“I’m sure you are aware of the arrival of the Crispino twins, tomorrow,” the Queen says.  She takes another sip of her tea, and Yuuri nibbles at his éclair just to be polite.  It _is_ quite good, but anxiety kind of makes it taste like cardboard anyway.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“You are to continue to not disclose that you are an empath,” she commands, setting the teacup into the saucer in her lap.  “At all times when Vityen'ka meets with them, you are to be with him.  Officially, this will reflect your status as a single unit in the making and will reinforce your image, which will be helpful when you are married later and he eventually takes the crown.  This part, you already knew.  However, I want you carefully monitoring their interactions.  Should you sense _anything_ off-putting from any member of Víteliú’s delegation, you will report directly to either Lilia Baranovskaya, to Vityen'ka, or to me.  Nobody else.  Is this clear?”

Yuuri hesitates.  This sounds awfully like under-the-table spying…  “I—yes, for the most part, Your Majesty, but, um… just to clarify, what do you mean by ‘off-putting’?”

Queen Nikiforova narrows her eyes in thought, seeming to critically evaluate Yuuri all over again.  “You know of the reign of my father, correct?”

“I know some,” Yuuri admits, “but perhaps not enough for what you might need from me.  I know that he instigated lots of reforms, not all of which were, ah, popular?  And he—”

“I’ve spent the majority of my reign cleaning up his mess,” the Queen interrupts, her voice a little flat.  “My father meant well in all that he did, but he was too idealistic for a throne and it showed.  He tried to change too much too fast, and it bred resentment among many members of court.  That resentment still festers today.  I have been told you’ve already spoken with one of the heads of the dissenters in my court.”

“Lord Alexei Ivanovich,” Yuuri supposes.  At the Queen’s curt nod, he sighs slightly and mutters,  “A charming fellow.”

The Queen snorts.  “Prince Katsuki, we may need to revisit your knowledge of the Ruthenian language before you can serve me properly, if that’s what you think the word _charming_ means.”

A joke.  The Queen’s jokes are very dry, apparently, and Yuuri lets himself chuckle, stuffing his nervousness aside.  This is an important conversation, no matter how much he wants to get up and run away, back through those imposing doors and down that imposing hallway until he gets to the safety of his own suite of rooms.

“I apologize if this sounds like a pointless, stupid question with an obvious answer, Your Majesty, but I would rather just ask it to make certain I understand, so, ah…  Do you think the dissenters in your court have something to do with Víteliú?” he asks carefully. 

Historically, Ruthenia has had strong ties to Víteliú.  The two are still on good terms, even with the alliance, but the alliance _is_ the reason the Crispinos are coming to Petersburg, because the economic details of Ruthenia’s new trade agreements with Hinomoto will have some effect on current trade agreements with Víteliú, so the Crown Prince and his sister are coming to negotiate some finer points thereof.  It’s a largely ceremonial visit, because the negotiations could easily have been carried out via diplomatic proxy, but both the Crispinos and the Nikiforovs understandably want to highlight their continued solidarity.

“Our ‘charming fellow’ has significant economic interests in the older trade agreements with Víteliú,” the Queen answers.  “That is to say, the ones that were in place before we signed the alliance with Hinomoto.  Additionally, he and many of the houses in my court have branches in Víteliú, due to historical closeness and other political arrangements like your and Vitka’s.  I don’t think the Crispinos themselves are likely to be involved in any potential plot, but I will not discredit the possibility and I certainly will not allow their delegation to bypass scrutiny.”

She pauses, giving Yuuri a chance to speak, but he chooses to stay silent and let her continue, indicating such by raising his teacup to his lips politely.

“Having you here gives us an advantage, Prince Katsuki,” she says, and the calculating look on her face is very similar to Viktor’s thoughtful one.  “Empathy is not a commonly studied school of magic.  It’s notoriously difficult to master, as I’m sure you know exceedingly well.  Having you fall into my lap like this is very fortunate.  I think you should be able to read the Víteliens and tell me if they seem to be plotting something.”

Well, that’s definitely no pressure or anything.  Yuuri shifts uncomfortably in his seat.  “Your Majesty, I don’t want to get your hopes up,” he says stiffly.  “As you just said, empathy is difficult to master.  I’ve studied for years, yes, but I don’t think you should rely solely on my perceptions to rule anything out.  It’s possible to shield thoughts from an empath, and even though you say I am a unique tool, I know several members of your court shield themselves anyway.  Lord Ivanovich is one of these, in fact.  It’s—it’s possible that someone maintaining a shield could think something suspicious and I wouldn’t be able to pick up more than a vague sense of unease, easily dismissable as some kind of anxiety.”

The Queen smiles that razor-sharp smile again, doing a grand total of _nothing_ to reassure him.  “Don’t worry, child,” she says.  “I would never rely solely on you.  However, you _are_ a unique tool with which to supplement the intelligence I gather.”

“I… see,” Yuuri says softly. 

“This isn’t going to be a one-time thing,” she warns him.  “I want you at Vityen'ka’s side at all official functions.  You are to be his right hand and support in all things.  Come, sit next to me, Prince Katsuki; there is something I want to show you.”

Hesitant, Yuuri stands and walks around the coffee table, sitting down next to her uncomfortably.  The Queen sets aside her saucer, reaches for one of the drawers under the coffee table, and pulls out a photo album.

She lays it across her lap and opens it, sliding it over between the two of them.  There’s a small, almost _wistful_ smile on her face, and Yuuri can feel that it’s achingly genuine; on the page, there’s a picture of the Queen herself, before she was coronated, holding a baby.  It’s Viktor, Yuuri realizes, eyes widening.

The Queen turns the page, and Yuuri has to stifle a laugh at the sequence of photos he sees next—toddler Viktor, staring with wide, awestruck eyes at a fluffy golden retriever that’s bigger than he is, and then toddler Viktor presumably seconds later, with his face buried in the dog’s fur.  The third photograph on the page is a little blurred, and is also possibly the funniest of the three, because little Viktor is on his back in the grass, laughing, while the golden retriever lies down on top of him.

She turns the page again, and it’s more pictures of Viktor, and so is the next page, and the next—from Viktor in a tiny suit and tie, tall as his mother’s hip, to Viktor smiling brightly into the camera with birthday cake smeared all over his cheeks.

“Why are you showing me this?” Yuuri asks softly, fingertip brushing one of the pages almost reverently.

“I want you to have no doubt in your heart that I love my son,” the Queen says, tempered steel in her voice.  She looks up from the pages to pin Yuuri with a hard look, but she’s less terrifying now that Yuuri has seen her with a toddler tying her hair into a mustache across her nose.

…Only a teensy, tiny bit less terrifying, though.

“I want you to have _no doubt_ that I will do whatever I must do, for him,” she continues.  “He is my crowning joy, my greatest achievement, and my legacy.  One day, I will be gone, and he will be king, and _you_ are going to do what I will no longer be able to—you will take care of him.”

“I…”  What does one _say_ to that?  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Queen Nikiforova eyes him critically.  “My son thinks quite highly of you,” she says.  “I’m glad for this.  I would not want to force him into a life with someone he could not stand.  What do you feel toward him?”

Yuuri feels a mild stab of relief.  This is a question he actually feels almost comfortable answering, given how much time he’s spent pondering it himself.  “He has been very kind to me.  I would call him a good friend,” he says.  “I care for him.”

“That answer pleases me,” the Queen says.  Yuuri leans forward to take his teacup from the table, sipping carefully.  “I hope you continue to care for him.  Stay close to him, Prince Katsuki.  He _needs_ a good friend.”

“I will do what I can to care for him and be there for him when he needs me,” he pledges.  “I hope that will be enough.”

The Queen nods, satisfied, and closes the album.  “I suppose I can’t ask you to do more than you can,” she says dryly, “so I will take that answer as it is.  Thank you, Prince Katsuki.”

Yuuri offers a slight smile in response.  “It is my duty and my honor, Your Majesty.”

The éclair tastes much better now that the roiling mass of anxiety in his stomach has calmed down.

* * *

Viktor finds him, later, when he’s standing out on a balcony to watch the sunset.  Yuuri greets him with a small smile, still turning those words over in his mind— _he needs a good friend._   It’s funny; he assumed Viktor was close to Lady Mila and Prince Yuri and Lord Georgi, and never thought too much of it, but now that he’s tried thinking about it, going back and looking at their interactions, he’s started to realize that might not be the whole story.  Viktor always seems like he’s holding something back.

“Hello there, Yuuri,” Viktor greets, coming over to lean on the railing next to Yuuri, standing close enough that their shoulders brush.  It doesn’t really faze Yuuri at this point; he’s starting to suspect he would be more surprised if Viktor _didn’t_ greet him with some kind of physical touch, at this point.  (Which is another thing—Viktor isn’t this clingy with any of the others, is he?)

“Hi,” he says, continuing to look out into the beautiful rosy sky, streaked with orange and gold and fading into blues and purples that stretch as far as the eye can see.  “It’s nice out here.”

“It is,” Viktor agrees.  “How was tea?”

Yuuri sighs, thinking of the fact that the Queen wants him to be her “unique tool”.  He understands the reasoning, certainly, and it’s not like he wasn’t going to be attending the events with Viktor anyway, but the fact that the Queen wants him to help with intelligence is… stressful.  But then he remembers the other things they discussed, and smiles.

“It wasn’t as bad as I was afraid it would be,” he admits, glancing over at Viktor.  Which is a mistake, because the golden light of the sinking sun is nothing short of _striking_ on his silvery hair, and it paints his high cheekbones and sharp jawline in stark relief, and oh, boy, he definitely hasn’t stopped being unfairly attractive in the few hours since Yuuri last saw him.

Oh, for crying out loud—and now he’s _smiling_ , as if that’s _any_ help whatsoever—

“I knew it wouldn’t be,” Viktor says smugly.  “What did you talk about?”

Ah.  He was unfairly attractive right up until he opened his mouth and _I told you so_ fell out.  Yuuri rolls his eyes.  He has a perfect retort to that.

“Lots of things,” he says easily, smiling back.  “She showed me your baby pictures.”

“She did _what?!_ ”  The look on Viktor’s face is nothing short of indignance and shock, and laughter bubbles up in Yuuri’s throat, spilling out into giggles despite his best attempts to smother them.  “No, you’re joking, right?  She didn’t.”

“She did,” Yuuri confirms, still grinning.  “I can’t believe you tried to eat your birthday candles when you turned four.”

“I was _four!_ ” Viktor protests, and the embarrassment that Yuuri feels radiating from him assures him that the rosy tint to Viktor’s face is not just a trick of the light.  “They were colorful and I knew the frosting on the cake was colorful and tasted good, so why wouldn’t the candles?  Laugh all you want, but I remember this vividly and I maintain that for a four-year-old, my reasoning was sound.  It wasn’t my fault I didn’t understand the difference between buttercream and wax!”

“You remember it vividly?” Yuuri asks, surprised. “I only remember bits and pieces from when I was that young.”

“Oh, so do I,” Viktor assures him, and he’s _pouting_ , and it’s kind of adorable because he’s also trying not to smile at the same time.  Idly, Yuuri wonders what the members of court would think, seeing the Ice Prince so open, so close to laughter.  He doesn’t like the idea.  They would want to tear him apart, he thinks, and that thought makes him want to shield Viktor, to protect him from those vicious claws, even though he’s perfectly capable of protecting himself.  “It’s just that…”  He shudders, drawing Yuuri back to the present, and sighs.  “You _never_ forget the first time you take a bite of _wax_.”

Yuuri glances at him, sidelong and amused.  “The _first_ time?”

Viktor huffs.  “No comment,” he says.  “Let’s go back to just watching the sunset together.  It’s much more romantic and pleasant than discussing these things.”

Yuuri looks up at him wryly.  “I’ll get the story out of you eventually,” he promises.  Honestly, he’s kind of surprising himself with how easy it is to fall into friendly teasing and easy, light banter with Viktor, but it feels kind of right to do it.  (And, if the Queen spoke truly when she said Viktor needs a good friend, well… it probably feels right for both of them.)

“Wow, aren’t the clouds pretty this evening?” Viktor asks pointedly.  “I sure love talking about the sky!  Look at that sun go, setting already.  Wow!  Incredible!”

Yuuri laughs.  “It _is_ beautiful,” he agrees.  They stand together in silence for a few minutes as the sun sinks toward the horizon, and Yuuri has to admit, this feels almost like contentment.  There’s just him, fresh air and the sunset, and Viktor.  All of his worries will fall back onto his shoulders when he goes back indoors, but for now, he can breathe easily.

Tentatively, he leans his head against Viktor’s shoulder, and after a moment, Viktor leans his cheek against Yuuri’s hair.  They don’t need to fill the silence with words; it’s quiet and content, just like this, and nothing needs to be said.  They don’t move apart until the sun is no longer visible, and the first of the stars are glimmering overhead.

* * *

 

 [20:59] Viktor:  
Did you unblock me yet???

[21:00] Yura:  
i can already tell im gonna fucking regret it, arent i

[21:00] Viktor:  
OH GOOD because Yuraaa the nicest thing just happened ヾ(´▽｀*)ﾉ☆  
I watched the sunset with Yuuri!!! And it was just so wonderful aaaaaaa  
Yura I’m so gay

_[Notice: this user has blocked you.]_

[21:02] Viktor:  
  
_[!] Message not delivered._

* * *

Viktor slides into the booth already expecting that he’s going to spend the next however-many minutes wishing he could be anywhere but here.  Because truly, the things that courtesy demands of him can be _outrageous_.  He had to turn down an offer to go to the beach with Mila, Georgi, Yuri, and Yuuri (apparently something that they’ve decided is going to be a monthly tradition) _again_ , in favor of… _this_ , purely because he’s the only Crown Prince in the lot of them, and as such, he has to be more available, blah blah blah.

Lord Alexei Ivanovich appears not more than a minute or two later with a smile that does not reach his eyes.  “Good afternoon, Prince Nikiforov,” he greets, inclining his head.  “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long.”

“Not too long, no,” Viktor answers, smiling back with all the friendliness of a frozen wasteland.  “Thank you for the invitation.  Today does seem like a nice day to have some iced coffee.”

Lie.  Today seems like a nice day to go to the beach.  They even took Makkachin!  Viktor never thought he’d be envious of his own dog, but lately, he’s started actually enjoying life instead of feeling like he’s just going through the motions all the time, and it’s mostly because of Yuuri, if he’s completely honest.  He hadn’t felt like he cared enough about anything to spend time with his cousin and other friends until Yuuri came and pulled them all together again.

…Holy _shit_ does he not want to be here. 

But Viktor is nothing if not wonderful at hiding his true thoughts, so he just glances out the café window at the blue sky and pretends he isn’t cursing the rules of etiquette for forcing him to go out for coffee with Ivanovich of all people.  Honestly.

However, he will say that at least they’re in a fairly private place, so he doesn’t have to worry so much about the paparazzi as when he drags poor Yuuri all over town on their little expeditions.  This is a café close to the palace, one that capitalizes on the nobility’s specific need for a place to go to be still secluded but on more neutral ground than the Nikiforovs’ palace itself.  Security is fairly good, and it’s been around for years.

They start off with small talk, of course.

“The weather has been lovely this week,” Lord Ivanovich agrees.  “I understand the urge to take time away from court to enjoy it.”

“As do I,” Viktor says, laughing a completely false laugh.  It comes more from his throat than his chest, like when he laughs at Yura and Yuuri’s banter.  “How have your grand-nieces been?  The last I heard, they were excited about their birthday party.  How did it go?”

“Oh, it went splendidly,” Ivanovich says, and for the first time, his smile actually looks … genuine.  The man has his faults (and oh, does he have them), but at least he loves his family.  “They are quite thrilled to have entered the world of double-digit ages.”

“Charming,” Viktor hums.  “Nobody tell them how dull taxes are.”

It’s a dig at the recent pushes for tax reform and huge cuts across the board, which Viktor has been opposing on behalf of the queen and of which Ivanovich is a proponent.  Most supporters of the cuts think that the crown has been focusing too much on external affairs and rapid globalization—a somewhat valid concern, given the reign of Viktor’s grandfather—and want to stop providing their monetary support, but it’s a tricky balance.  When she took the throne, Queen Vasilisa rolled back some but not all of her father’s radical reform programs as an attempt to compromise her support for his ideas with her awareness that he bred far too much resentment in the old nobility.

The cold, detached look returns to Lord Ivanovich’s face.  “I don’t find taxes so dull, Your Highness,” he comments.  “I think there are plenty of interesting, nuanced things to be said, in a conversation about them.”

“Are there?” Viktor asks, leaning his chin on one hand and smiling coolly.  “Interesting.  Last time we talked, your mind seemed awfully made-up on the topic.  How is there nuance if you refuse to consider both sides?  Or have you called me here to tell me you would like to switch your allegiances to the interests of the crown and state after all?”

“Straight to the point today, Your Highness?”  Ivanovich raises an eyebrow.  “It’s unlike you to be so direct.”

“Perhaps I am giving into the urge you mentioned,” Viktor shrugs indolently, then takes a sip of his iced coffee.  “Or perhaps it’s my roundabout way of telling you something.  And since you seem to want that something spelled out, perhaps it’s my roundabout way of indicating that we have had this very same conversation enough times that I am starting to get tired of it.”

Ivanovich sips his own coffee, giving Viktor a moment to consider him.  The man is more than old enough to be his father—a few years older than his mother, to be specific—meaning he grew up and started his political career under the reign of Viktor’s grandfather, King Pyotr Nikiforov II, one of the most controversial figures of recent Ruthenian history.

Viktor only has a few memories of his grandfather himself—he passed away when Viktor was seven—but he knows more than enough about his policy decisions.  King Pyotr was interested in radical reform, feeling that Ruthenia’s isolationist status had forced the country into stagnation in the sciences and arts while Vespuccia, Hinomoto, and Zhōnghuá, to name a few, pulled ahead.  Seeing this, he tried to force several decrees and programs to catch up, but was ultimately too idealistic in his vision.  In particular, several sects of the nobility were greatly displeased, most notably those tied to the military, which was receiving several budget cuts under Pyotr’s effort to rejuvenate the incentivization of education in Ruthenia.  House Ivanovich is one of those.

“Well, Your Highness,” Ivanovich says evenly, “I have things to say, but it appears that you lack the ears to hear them, so until then, we are at a bit of an impasse.  I can do nothing but repeat myself and hope that you hear me.  I am deeply concerned for the future of our country, and if having the same conversation with you, the heir to its throne and representative of that future, several times is the only way I can do something about it, then so be it.”  A pause.  “Unless you would rather I take more drastic action,” he adds with a snort, a flat attempt at humor that leaves Viktor hiding a frown.

“Alright,” Viktor says with a shake of his head.  “I am well aware that you have little respect for my mother and even less for me, Lord Ivanovich, but surely even you know better than to insinuate a deficiency on my part.  It is not a ‘lack of ears’, as you so politely put it, that keeps me from agreeing you.  Is it so hard for you to believe that perhaps there are multiple viewpoints on what is good for Ruthenia?”

“And as ever,” Ivanovich returns, “you ignore the bulk of the point to focus on the only part that could be conceived as an insult.  Perhaps this is why we must keep having this conversation, Your Highness.”

Viktor takes another long sip of his coffee, weighing words in his mind.  His talks with Ivanovich always go like this—trading barbs, acting like immature brats instead of reasonably grown men, and ultimately achieving nothing other than convincing him that Ivanovich is irritatingly persistent.

“You and I both know that in all affairs of state, I represent the Crown,” he sighs.  “You and I both know that I cannot let an insult to the Crown slide, no matter how small.  Shall we get to the point?  You’re going to offer me something and I’m going to say I’m afraid I have to disagree, and then we’ll both go our separate merry ways.”

Lord Ivanovich looks at him with plain disapproval.  “Your impatience hints at immaturity, Your Highness,” he says with thinly veiled distaste.

“Now I almost think you’re _trying_ to get me on the defensive,” Viktor drawls.  “I barely finished explaining again why I cannot ignore an insult to discuss the meat of the matter, and here you go insulting me again.  Persistence is a trait to be admired, but this… I can think of other words to describe it, and they are markedly less admirable.”

Lord Ivanovich looks so obviously irritated, like he’s itching to say something else that’s a pointed insult because he just cannot stand Viktor’s smug self-assuredness, but he _can’t_ without walking into Viktor’s neatly made trap of words, and that knowledge fills Viktor with even more smugness.  He won’t let himself get arrogant, but this _is_ pretty funny.

“Very well,” Ivanovich says after a moment.  “I’m here to discuss a compromise about the tax reforms.”

 _Finally_.

“You have my attention,” Viktor hums, leaning forward slightly.  “Do go on.”

“I will cede my opposition to the tax cuts completely,” Ivanovich says, and Viktor has to hide his flash of surprise, “on the condition that you renegotiate the terms of the alliance with Hinomoto to exclude the mutual defense pact and the trade licenses.”

Viktor’s eyebrows shoot up.  “You want me to essentially gut the alliance in all but name in return for your public support of higher taxation on the nobility?” he repeats, not entirely sure he heard right.  Is the man serious?  He ought to know Viktor will already say no to that.

“In essence, yes,” Ivanovich says.  He frowns as if he already knows Viktor is about to turn him down.  “Ruthenia doesn’t need the alliance, but the crown needs that tax revenue.  Don’t let your infatuation with Katsuki impede your decision-making skills, Your Highness.  It could be your downfall.”

His _infatuation with—_

“My support for the alliance has nothing to do with Prince Katsuki,” Viktor says coolly.  He finishes off the rest of his coffee and stands, signalling quite clearly that he is done here.  “Thank you ever so much for this fascinating talk, Lord Ivanovich.  I’ll be sure to think about it.”

More lies.  He just raises a hand in farewell and strolls away, placing the empty mug in the bin for used dishes on his way out, and leaves the café in favor for a walk in the sunlight.

* * *

 

[7:39] reminder that you’re gay:  
Mila! <3 Mickey and I are leaving the skyport now, I’m so excited! I can’t wait to see you!

[7:40] Mila:  
!!!  
I can’t wait to see you, too! It’s been way too long!  
Have a good flight! <3

* * *

Mila is practically bouncing on her feet all day.  Today, today, today!  Crown Prince Michele (bleh) and Princess Sara (!!!) will be arriving _today_ and she absolutely cannot wait.  Sara is her long-standing close friend of many years, and is also the object of months’ worth of pining.  It’s been a while since they last saw each other, which was on the Babicheva family’s annual winter vacation to Víteliú, which happened to be the time that Mila realized she was kind of head-over-heels for her friend.

Fun times!

“You look excited,” Yuuri observes, smiling softly.  Mila laughs, grabs his hands, and hauls him into an impromptu spin, too excited to keep sitting still in the courtyard.

“I am!” she giggles.  “I haven’t seen Sara in _ages_ , you know!”

Yuuri laughs and easily spins with her, excellent dancer that he is.  “Are the two of you close, then?”

Mila nods enthusiastically.  “We met _years_ ago, at one of these diplomatic functions in Víteliú.  We’ve been friends for a long time!”  She grins.  “Also, she’s _really_ cute, and I’m _really_ gay, and there’s that, too.”

Yuuri’s eyes widen, and then he smiles brightly, eyes shining behind his glasses.  “Oh, that’s wonderful!  Are you two together, or…?”

“Not _yet_ ,” Mila says.  She lets go of Yuuri’s hands and plops down in the grass, then flops over onto her back with a dreamy sigh.  “But I’m planning to ask her formal permission to court her soon.  Possibly while she’s here this week?  I don’t know yet.  I might wait until winter, because my family always takes a trip to Víteliú in December anyway, so I’ll definitely be seeing her then, too…”

“Hmm,” Yuuri says.  He folds his legs and sits down much more gracefully than she did, and Mila laughs at that.  “Do you think she’ll say yes when you ask?”

 “I’m like… ninety-nine percent sure,” Mila says honestly.  She’s pretty sure their conversations have veered into definite “flirting” territory before… many, many times.  She’s even drunk-texted Sara that “salaaaa ur so hot omf” and “*sara *omg hahahs”, and Sara replied with something along the lines of “You’re very nice to look at yourself!”, which had sent drunk Mila into a fit of excited giggles.  The one percent of doubt merely comes from the fact that nothing in life is ever certain, (except for death, or whatever).

“Then why put it off?” Yuuri asks.  He picks two clovers from the patch growing nearby and starts fiddling with the stems, and Mila watches with idle curiosity as he ties the stems together and picks a third flower, adding it to the previous two.

“I dunno,” she shrugs. “I guess as much as I like her, I’m a little afraid to say something to mess up our current relationship?  Like, logically I know I won’t, but … nerves, you know?”

“Yeah,” Yuuri says sympathetically.  “I know exactly what you mean.”

They sit quietly for a moment, Yuuri continuing his project with the clovers as Mila closes her eyes and bathes in the sunshine, daydreaming about the banquet and ball tonight.  Sara and Michele should have actually already arrived, but they won’t be seeing visitors for a little while, considering that they’ll want to settle in and rest after all the travel; Mila is just waiting for a text from Sara that says “I’m here, come see me”.

A familiar _boof_ interrupts her reverie, and she opens her eyes just in time to see Makkachin come trotting across the courtyard toward them.  Funny, that he isn’t with Viktor.  Then again, Makkachin sometimes gets bored while Viktor is stuck in meetings, which Mila is pretty sure he is right now, and is let outside to run wild in the courtyards.  Yuuri’s face lights up at the sight of the dog, and he holds out his arms and lets Makkachin all but knock him over, laughing.

“Good boy!” he croons, enthusiastically rubbing Makkachin’s head and sides as Makkachin noses at his face.  “Good boy, Makkachin, oh yes!  Yes you are!”

Mila watches him coo over the dog in a mixture of Ruthenian and Hinomotan, his delight evident in his face, and thinks wryly to herself that Viktor would probably die if he saw this, a combination of his crush and his dog being adorable.

Well, having had that thought, as a faithful, responsible, good friend, there’s only one thing she can do.  She quickly gets her phone out, before Yuuri gets over the fact that Makkachin is here, and records a short video, just a few seconds long, making sure to get Yuuri’s laughter and Makkachin’s wagging tail as well as the flowers and sunshine all in her shot.  What can she say?  It’s an art.  An art that Viktor is sure to appreciate, she thinks, amused, as she presses send.

Viktor texts back with alarming alacrity, given that she’s pretty sure he’s supposed to be busy right now.

[11:04] ice ice baby:  
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!♥♥♥!!!!!!!!!!!!!♥!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!♥♥♥♥♥♥♥!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!♥!!!♥♥!!!!!!♥!♥♥!!!!!!♥!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!♥♥♥♥!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Mila laughs to herself and sets her phone aside, then reaches out to pet Makkachin too.  Yuuri manages to sit up when she diverts Makkachin’s attention, and soon enough the dog calms down, lying in the grass with his back pressed against Yuuri’s leg.

“Wow,” Mila laughs.  “He really likes you, huh?”

“I probably just give him too many snacks,” Yuuri admits, looking down fondly.  He runs his hands through Makkachin’s curly fur and smiles, then goes back to his clover chain.

“What are you making?” Mila asks curiously.

“Oh, it’s just a flower crown,” Yuuri says with a dismissive shrug.  “I like to make them when I just want something to do with my hands, that’s all.  It’s nothing fancy.”

“Can you teach me?” Mila asks, scooting closer. “It’s pretty!  I’ve never made one myself before, but I’ve always liked the way they look.”

“Oh!”  Yuuri blinks.  “Um, sure, of course!”  He sets the chain in his hands down in his lap, plucks two more clovers (he plucks from the bottom, just above the soil, Mila notes) and leans forward to demonstrate.  “You see, you just make a knot on one of them, like this.  And you put it over the other stem, as close to the flower as you can get it, and pull it as tight as you can without breaking it.  That part is a little hard, you have to be careful!  And then you just break the original stem off and make a knot on the next one, and you put a new flower in there, and you keep going like that until it’s as long as you like.”

He holds the three chained flowers out to her, and Mila takes them carefully.  “Okay… well, it _sounds_ easy, but we’ll see in practice,” she says, grinning.  She’s always loved a challenge, anyway, and this sounds like a great way to pass the time until she gets that text from Sara! 

Yuuri laughs.  “Let me know if you need help!”

They lapse into another comfortable silence, sitting in the grass and weaving flowers together.  Or—well—in Mila’s case, _trying to_ weave flowers together.  It’s harder than it looks; Yuuri has a steady chain, thick and solid, but her own attempt is flimsy and the flowers are strung too far apart, and she’s pretty sure if she picks it up, it’ll fall apart.

After a few minutes, her flower crown looks woefully delicate.  Mila blows out a breath, and Yuuri looks up questioningly.

“What am I doing wrong?” she asks, gesturing to the mess in her lap.

Yuuri takes one look and smiles.  “You need to tie the knots closer to the base of the flowers themselves,” he says, turning his almost-completed flower crown over to show her how he’s tied each flower so close to the next.  “You’re sort of tying the stems around, um, the stems, too far down.  If you get it closer to the flowers, it’ll feel more secure.”

“Hm,” Mila says, and with newfound determination, reaches to try again.

By the time she manages to tie enough flowers together to call it a decent-looking second attempt in progress, Yuuri has finished his flower crown.  He looks at it, then down at snoozing Makkachin at his side, and carefully places it on the dog’s head.  Makkachin’s ear twitches, but he doesn’t move otherwise, and Yuuri claps his hands, delighted.

“Look!” he beams.  “He’s so cute!”

“Wow,” Mila teases.  “Prince Viktor really is rubbing off on you, huh?”

Yuuri pauses, adjusts his glasses, and looks directly at her with the most serious expression she’s seen on him to date.  “I would love Makkachin even if I had never met Viktor in my life,” he says, firm and resolute.  Then he turns away to rub Makkachin’s belly.

Mila laughs, glances at her phone to ascertain that there has not, in fact, been a text that she somehow missed, and looks back down at her flower crown.  The second attempt in progress already looks worlds better than the first did, and who knows?  Maybe if it looks halfway decent when she finishes it, she could give it to Sara.  As a welcome present, of course.  A welcome present, and also an ambiguously gay overture of _good lord you’re pretty and here are some flowers just for you_.

A few more minutes pass.  Yuuri takes a few pictures of Makkachin, crooning to him in Hinomotan again, and then settles back down to text someone—probably his friend Phichit, from what Mila has heard from him—with a small smile firmly in place on his face.

“What do you say to him?” she asks, pulling another stem through a knot and tugging gently.  “When you speak in Hinomotan, I mean.  I learned some in school, but I’m not really fluent and you talk fast.”

Yuuri laughs self-consciously.  “That, and I was using a dialect common to my home area,” he says.  “But I didn’t really say anything, it’s the same as I would say in Ruthenian.  He’s a good boy, he’s wonderful and very cute and I love him.  It’s just that he won’t understand the words either way, so I might as well say them in Hinomotan, you know?  I don’t get the chance to speak it that often with anyone other than Makkachin.”

Mila nods, understanding.  “That makes sense,” she says more softly.  “If… you’d like, I could _try_ to speak it with you?  I’ll probably really mess up on the pronunciations, though, I have to warn you ahead of time.  Don’t make fun of me!”

Yuuri looks at her, slight surprise in his eyes.  “You… wouldn’t mind?”

“No,” Mila says in Hinomotan, or attempts to, because that’s the way she remembers learning to say “no” in lessons, but in front of a native speaker, all bets are off and she can’t help but feel self-conscious.

“Well, in that case, I can help you with the pronunciations,” Yuuri offers, this time using precise and formal speech, which she greatly appreciates.  “Thank you for offering, Lady Mila.”

They manage some conversation after that, though they spend a fair amount of time quietly sitting in each other’s company, when suddenly Makkachin perks up, his head whipping around toward the palace.  Following his gaze, Mila sees Viktor striding toward them, smiling cheerfully.

“Yuuri!  Mila!  Makkachin, moy milyy!” he calls, dropping to his knees in the grass on Makkachin’s other side.  Makkachin is on his feet again, tail wagging as he noses at Viktor’s face and Viktor laughs exuberantly, crooning even more ridiculously than Yuuri was a few minutes ago. 

“Hi, Viktor,” Yuuri says, though he’s still looking at Makkachin.  “How was the meeting?”

Viktor wrinkles his nose.  “Boring,” he says, “and full of far fewer people I’d like to be stuck with.  Especially when this one—” he boops Makkachin’s nose with a fingertip, and laughs again when it gets licked for his trouble “—abandoned me halfway through.  Though I can’t _blame_ him for coming out here to lie in the grass with you, given that if I had had the choice, I would certainly have done the same!”

Mila raises an eyebrow.  If _that_ isn’t blatant flirting, she doesn’t know what is.

“Makkachin has been having a delightful time,” she says.  “Yuuri made him a flower crown!”

“So I see!” Viktor says.  He adjusts it so that it isn’t precariously hanging onto Makkachin’s head by one of his ears, settling it properly in the middle again, and sighs.  “How come Makkachin gets a crown and I don’t?”

“You weren’t here,” Yuuri blinks, as if it’s obvious.  Which it is, and Viktor is just … being Viktor, trying to get a rise out of everyone just to see if he can, and also flirting rather unsubtly with Yuuri.  “Why would I have made one if you weren’t here?”

It’s interesting, Mila thinks, looking at the two of them.  There’s a moment that she can pinpoint, a single day when their relationship changed—it was the snow day, last month, the day Yuuri had that big panic attack and froze himself half to death.  They’ve been closer since then, noticeably, but they’ve both mellowed a bit in general, too.  Yuuri seems more comfortable, and Viktor smiles more genuinely, these days.

“Why, you would make it for your poor fiancé, who probably perished of boredom while listening to stuffy nobles discuss the depths of details as to why they shouldn’t be taxed,” Viktor sighs.  “A flower crown in his memory, as he probably didn’t make it through.”

Yuuri smiles at that.  “But you did make it,” he points out, leaning over to pluck two more clovers from the thinning patch.  He starts twining them together with the ease of practice again.  “Besides, your crown will be much nicer if they’re still fresh, not wilted.”

“You don’t _actually_ have to make me one,” Viktor says, at least having the shame to look just a tad guilty.  “I was joking, Yuuri.”

Before Yuuri can answer, Makkachin chooses the perfect moment to stand up, circle around, and then flop back down with his head in Yuuri’s lap.  Yuuri looks utterly charmed by this development, abandoning the flowers in his hands to scratch behind Makkachin’s ears.

Viktor disguises his grin behind a sigh just as Mila’s phone goes off, and she scrambles to unlock it.  “He’s only marrying me for my dog, isn’t he,” he asks, looking at her.

[11:26] reminder that you’re gay:  
Mila!!!!!!! :D We’re here and I just finished unpacking for the week!!!!  
Do you want to go out?  Or stay in, I don’t know!

[11:27] Mila:  
!!!!!!!  
We can do either, it’s up to you!!!!! I’m on my way to your room now :D

“He definitely is,” Mila agrees.  She hops to her feet, grinning, and dusts the grass from her skirt, giving herself a last once-over to make sure she looks passable, and then scoops up her own flower crown.  “Sorry, boys, I gotta run!  Enjoy your flowers.”

“Enjoy your not-date!” Viktor sings.

“Oh, I will!”  She waves, twirls about gleefully, and takes off at a quick walk that’s just shy of breaking into a run.  She has somewhere to be, and it’s not proper to keep a princess waiting.

* * *

 

Yuuri’s first meeting with Crown Prince Michele Crispino of Víteliú is not, in fact, at the welcome ball scheduled for the evening of the Crispino twins’ arrival like he thought it would be, but instead is during an innocuous walk down a hallway on his way to meet Viktor to walk Makkachin. 

He’s just spotted Viktor waiting past the junction of two corridors, Makkachin at his feet, and is about to wave in greeting when the slow prickling feeling of unease—not his own, but vaguely directed at him by someone nearby—stops him in his tracks.

“Prince Katsuki!” an unfamiliar voice calls sharply, and Yuuri wheels around, already searching for the source, which turns out to be a fairly tall man who is approaching him at a fairly rapid pace.  Yuuri wonders if he should be alarmed.

“Crown Prince Crispino,” he greets, inclining his head (deeply, because a visiting Crown Prince technically outranks him) in greeting.  “I did not expect to meet you until tonight.  How was your trip?”

“It was fine,” Prince Crispino says with a wave of his hand.  He’s a little too close for Yuuri’s liking, making him feel almost _cornered_ despite the lack of corners in the hallway.  “I actually wanted to talk to you about tonight, however.”

Yuuri blinks.  “Of course,” he says.  “What about tonight?”

“Don’t try anything with my sister,” Prince Crispino warns, his eyes narrowed in suspicion as he glares at Yuuri.  Is he serious?  There isn’t even a guarantee Yuuri will end up doing anything more than a customary dance out of courtesy with Princess Sara tonight—it’s completely possible they’ll just smile, talk once, and let the night slip by with no further interactions.  The courts are certainly big enough that that wouldn’t be surprising.

And besides, more importantly…

“I’m _engaged_ ,” Yuuri says incredulously.  Yes, it is an arranged engagement.  No, that doesn’t mean he’s somehow allowed to entertain thoughts of infidelity.  Perhaps that’s more common out here in the West, but in Hinomoto, it’s strictly frowned upon to act outside a marriage, whether there are true feelings behind it or not.

“All the same,” says Crown Prince Crispino.  “I’ll be keeping an eye on you.  And on Prince Nikiforov.”

 _I’m pretty sure we aren’t the ones you have to worry about making a move on your sister,_ Yuuri doesn’t tell him, because friends don’t betray each others’ confidence.  Maybe this ridiculous man is part of why Mila is hesitant to formally ask Princess Crispino’s permission to court her.

“Whatever makes you feel most comfortable, Your Highness,” Yuuri says instead, polite and neutral, and ducks toward the hallway where he saw Viktor before Crispino can say anything else.  Viktor pops up at his side not a minute later, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Did he just give you the shovel talk about Princess Sara?” he asks knowingly as Yuuri pets Makkachin in greeting.

“How many times have you heard it?” Yuuri returns, shaking his head in disbelief.  “ _Honestly_.  We are _engaged_.”

“To be perfectly frank with you, I stopped keeping count,” Viktor says cheerfully.  “At this point I’m mostly convinced that it’s just his way of saying hello.”

Yuuri just shakes his head again as they start to walk down the corridor.  “Wow.”

“Yeah,” Viktor laughs.  “He’s a character.  I hope he doesn’t step on your feet tonight.”

Yuuri sighs.  He’s the one who has to dance the opening dance at the welcome ball with Prince Michele—it’ll be parallel, two couples, each composed of a Crown Prince with a Second Prince/Princess.  But he would much rather dance with Princess Sara, after spending the morning listening to Mila excitedly talk about all the wonderful things about her.  Crown Prince Michele is, as Viktor put it, a… a character.

“I’d like to think I know how to dance well enough to avoid his feet,” he answers wryly, “but you never know.  He could surprise me.”

“He could,” Viktor agrees.  “I’m not sure that that’s the kind of surprise you’d like, though.”

Yuuri offers him a sardonic look.  “I’m pretty sure it’s not.”

“I’ll have to make sure I find you _good_ surprises, instead of bad ones, then,” Viktor says.  “I would much rather make you smile!”  He adds a wink, and Yuuri just laughs at him.  He always jokes around like this, when it’s just the two of them and not court, and it’s kind of funny.  He flirts with people he’s friends with, apparently.  Which is fine, but…

But sometimes it’s frustrating because Yuuri is engaged to him already and yes, they’re friends, but it’s still kind of… embarrassing?  Awkward?  Strange?  Because of the way he’s an attractive man and he knows it, and Yuuri knows it too, and to have Viktor flirting with him, even though he knows Viktor is just joking, is, um… frustrating, yes.  That’s the closest word he can think of for it.

“You don’t need to worry about constant surprises,” he says, suddenly intensely aware of every time Viktor’s arm brushes his as they walk.  They’ve certainly been closer than just walking side-by-side, but _still_ , the more Yuuri thinks about it, the more self-conscious he gets.  He’s starting to realize he likes that closeness, likes it a lot, and he doesn’t know what that means.

So he does what he always does when confronted with things that make him even moderately uncomfortable: running away.

“I’m feeling kind of tired,” he says, stopping suddenly.  Viktor stops too, looking a little concerned, but before he can say anything, Yuuri just shakes his head and takes a step back, closer to the hallway that’ll take him back to his rooms.  “Sorry.  I think I’m going to go take a nap,” he says with a little laugh.  “You know, so I can make sure I’m well-rested for the ball tonight.”

“Oh.  Well, alright, that’s fine, though maybe Makkachin might miss you,” Viktor says, keeping his voice light even though Yuuri can feel the faintest thread of disappointment under the surface.  “Do you need anything?”

Yuuri shakes his head quickly. “No, no,” he says.  “I’m alright.  Just… tired.  Yeah.  That’s all.”

And he needs some time alone, to think, and to avoid thinking, and probably to call home, because he hasn’t done that today, and he won’t have the chance to later, so he should take care of that now, and wow, look at that, he’s _already_ putting off thinking about it.

“Okay, then, Yuuri,” Viktor says, and there’s _something_ about the way he says Yuuri’s name that makes Yuuri want to just sit down and listen to him say it over and over and over.  _Yuuri, Yuuri, Yuuri_.  He doesn’t think he’s ever really wanted to listen to someone say his name like this before, and it goes back to feed into his uncertainty, and that just makes him even more anxious to run away to he can think about this on his own terms (by which he means _not think about it_ ).  “I’ll come by to make sure you’re awake before the ball?”

“Um, sure, yeah, that’d be fine,” Yuuri says, hoping he doesn’t sound as awkward as he feels.  “Okay.  See you later, Viktor!”

Without waiting for Viktor to offer to walk him to his door, like he was probably about to do, Yuuri turns on his heel and strides away, keeping his shoulders back and head up to portray the confidence he’s not feeling right now.  Yes, calling home sounds like a good idea—calling home, and then maybe a nap.  He used it as an excuse, but in all honesty, he probably could do with a nap before the ball.  Overthinking is tiring.

When he gets to his room, he takes off his glasses, flops face-down on the bed, and groans.  _Why_ does he always have to do this?  Just when things are looking up he always finds something else to worry about to the point of actual anxiety.  And how quickly that worry escalates!  Just ten minutes ago it had been safe and secure at the back of his mind, not troubling him, but now…

_Ugh._

His brain just feels like a jumble of confused thoughts, and when he thinks about it, it’s mostly the fact that it’s a jumble that’s upsetting him.  If he can just _organize_ the confusion, maybe…

It takes a bit of wriggling around to get him to admit to himself that he can’t get his phone out of his pocket while lying on top of it, but after that he rolls over and opens a new memo.  He stares at it for a moment, a little bit overwhelmed by the pristine emptiness of the screen, then begins to type.

  1. _I don’t think anything is actually wrong, outside my head._
  2. _Whatever is upsetting me is internal. This does not make it less of a problem; this is just a statement as to where it is coming from._



That last sentence is kind of hard to believe, but years of therapy have gotten him to the point of automatically _telling_ himself that his feelings are alright to have, even if he doesn’t necessarily believe himself when he says it.  They say he’ll get there, though, and he thinks he believes that.

  1. _I am upset because I am confused about my emotions._



That’s progress.  After this point is where things start to get very muddled.  Yuuri tries anyway.

  1. _I am confused about my emotions about_



He stops, hesitating, and finds that he doesn’t know which words to type next.  Which emotions is he confused about, anyway?  What do they all pertain to?  Is it maybe his relationships with his friends here, or with the broader court, or more specifically, with…

  1. _I am confused about my emotions about my relationship with Viktor._



Yes.  That seems solid.  Previously, he wasn’t entirely sure where the feelings were coming from, but that sentence seems accurate.  This is helping him sort it out.

  1. _Viktor is my friend, but I am confused because I don’t feel the same way about him as I do_ _about any of the other people I call friends, whether it’s Phichit, Mila, Georgi, or Yuri._
  2. _The way I feel about Viktor is more like… I think I might have a crush on him?_



He stares at the words for a long moment, almost in disbelief that he’s admitted it now.  This is the first time he’s done that, even to himself, even in his head, and it’s… _weird_.  Logically, this is very stupid and annoying, because they’re just _friends_ , and they’re still getting to know each other and they’ve only known each other for around half a year and is he _really_ falling for him?  Empathy gives him the tools to manage emotions, but not the ability to really manipulate his own feelings into not existing, so he’s at a loss here, and…

No.  A breath in, a breath out.

  1. _I might have a crush on him, which makes sense because he’s both very sweet and very pretty, and I do trust him. This is not necessarily a bad thing, but I’m still worrying anyway._



Besides, a crush doesn’t really mean anything.  It’ll probably fade with some time.  He and Viktor can have a nice, strong relationship built on trust and a solid friendship, and he has no reason to bring the fact that he might have a crush into it.  After all, Viktor doesn’t feel the same way, and it’s just a little crush on his friend, so…

  1. _I’m not going to act on it, but it’s good to be aware that this is what I’m feeling._



Ugh.  _Ugh._

He groans again, saves the memo, shoves his phone away, and buries his face in his pillow.  Feelings are so _inconvenient_.  Is this seriously happening?  Someone, somewhere, must be laughing at him for _crushing on his own fiancé_.  The irony would be hilarious if it was anyone else.

(A sudden fleeting fear pops up—if Prince Michele’s suspicions are anything to go by, it’s not unheard of in the West for partners in political marriages to have affairs on the side, and Yuuri doesn’t know how well he would handle having to watch _that_ —but he quashes it as ruthlessly as he can.  Besides, basing _anything_ on the way that Crown Prince Michele Crispino acted is a new low, even for his anxiety disorder.)

No, there’s no point in dwelling on it and stressing.  The two of them will be close no matter what, because no matter what, Yuuri refuses to let his relationship with Viktor deteriorate, even if it does stay firmly platonic (he owes it to Hinomoto to keep the representation of the alliance strong and unified, no matter what), and that will have to be enough.  No—it won’t _have_ to be enough, it just… will be. 

It will be enough.  It will.

Repeating that to himself enough times might make him stop doubting every single thought in his head (well, it might make him stop doubting all of them except for “this is a terrible idea you should run away”, which ironically is the actual terrible idea).

 _“Ugh_ ,” he mutters, reaching for his phone.  It’ll be nice to push all this aside and hear his family’s voices.

* * *

 

[15:24] ice ice baby:  
Milaaaa you know how Yuuri was going to walk Makkachin with me today??  
Well I met up with him and he seemed okay but then we were walking and he just said he was tired and left???  
Do you think I did something wrong??? (-д-；)

[15:32] Mila:  
He was probably just tired.  You’re overthinking it.  
Also not that I’m not sorry for your gay distress but I’m over here being a pining lesbian so ttyl

[15:33] ice ice baby:  
Oh, right, my bad.  I’ll go bother Yura, unless he hasn’t unblocked me yet…  
Have fun with Princess Sara! ;)

[15:39] Mila:  
Put that winky face away or so help me…

[15:40] ice ice baby:  
(･ω<)☆

[15:45] Mila:  
Sometimes I just really can’t understand how Yura got to be the way he is.   
This is not one of those times.

[15:46] ice ice baby:  
So harsh! (T⌓T)  
Fine, Makkachin is a good listener.

* * *

 

The ball comes quickly that evening, and Mila is having the time of her _life._

Sara is in her arms, head tipped back and laughing merrily, as they twirl around the corner of the dance floor, almost stumbling over each other’s feet because they both keep giggling.  They’re maybe a teensy bit tipsy, just enough to make everything seem even more delightful than it is, and the strains of music all around are enough to make Mila positively giddy.

“I’ve missed dancing with you!” Sara exclaims.  Mila dips her, and she accordingly wraps her leg around Mila’s, the side of her foot stroking Mila’s calf.  Mila swallows, pulling Sara back upright, and sends them both into a spin turn.

“I’ve missed you, in general,” she answers breathlessly.  There’s a heady sense of exhilaration in every movement they make together—Sara’s hand on her shoulder, Sara’s other hand in hers.  Sara’s legs, against her own.  Sara, here, with her after months apart.

The song ends and they stumble off the floor, still laughing, hands still joined.  Sara squeezes Mila’s fingers and Mila squeezes back, nudging her with a hip.  Sara bumps her back in return, and Mila’s heart sings at the sight of that smile.

 _I could kiss you_ , she thinks, but doesn’t, because while she wouldn’t mind doing that right here in front of everyone, she knows Sara is more private and would probably not appreciate it particularly much, right now.

“Let’s go get something to drink,” Sara suggests, still trying to catch her breath.  “And maybe some air?”

“Sounds good,” Mila agrees.  No more alcohol for now, she figures, and the two of them wind up with glasses of chilled sparkling fruit juice in their non-joined hands as they weave through the mingling crowd to reach the glass doors to the terraces.

Outside, the music is softer, and it’s much easier to hear each other speak.  It’s not as hot and stuffy as it is inside, either, and Sara closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.  Mila just looks at her, bathed in moonlight with the golden glow of the light from indoors highlighting her dark hair, and wonders how one person can be so beautiful.

 _I could kiss you_ , she thinks again.  But then Sara isn’t standing there being kissable anymore, she’s tugging Mila to a bench and sitting down, sipping her juice, and Mila follows eagerly.

“So,” she says, twirling a lock of Sara’s dark, silky hair around her fingers, which makes Sara smile again.  She braided the flowers from the crown into it, earlier, after the crown itself fell apart, and Mila still can’t stop smiling at the memory.  “How are you feeling about the politics for the week?”

Sara shrugs, elegant and fluid.  “I think it’s all going to work out pretty well,” she says.  “I think that in light of the Ruthenia-Hinomoto alliance, there’s possible avenues to trade deals between Víteliú and Hinomoto, too.  Right now we’re neutral, you know?  But I think we could both find some things profitable.”  She pauses, wrinkling her nose, and adds, “Plus, I think Mickey is very pleased that Prince Viktor is off the market.”

Mila blinks.  “Really?” she asks, eyebrows raised.  “Why’s that?”

Sara rolls her eyes.  “Why do you think?” she asks.  “Means that even if Víteliú and Ruthenia were to renew the terms of the old alliance, he wouldn’t be able to marry me.”

Mila snorts.  “Right,” she says.  “I should’ve guessed that.  Honestly, Sara, he’s so protective of you it’s a little weird…”

“I know, I know,” Sara sighs.  They’ve had this conversation before.  “I’ve actually talked to him a little bit, recently, and he knows that no matter what, decisions like that will be mine.  I’ll listen to his input, I mean, but I won’t let him walk all over me.  He means well, but he needs to step back, you know?”

“Yeah!” Mila cheers.  “I’m glad you guys were able to talk about it.  Do you think he’d throw a fit if you, ah, did want to court someone or be courted?”

Sara glances at her, something unreadable flickering in her eyes for the briefest moment before she looks back into her juice and smiles.  “I think he’d throw a fit, probably,” she shrugs, “but he wouldn’t do anything more than that.  Which is fine by me.”

“Good to know,” Mila hums.  Feeling a little bit bold, she lets go of Sara’s hand to hook her arm around her friend’s waist, drawing her close, and beams.  “I’m glad you’re here, you know.”

“I’m glad I’m finally getting the chance to be with you again,” Sara says, melting against her side, and oh boy Mila can never move again, not when Sara is leaning into her like this.  “I’ve missed you so much, you don’t even know!”

“I think I might know,” she teases lightly, hoping the darkness is disguising the blush on her cheeks.  “I mean, I think I probably missed you just as much, so…”

Sara laughs, a silvery, velvet-coated sound.  _I could kiss you_ , Mila thinks, again, because apparently she’s not going to get that idea out of her head no matter what tonight.  “Alright,” she cedes, “that’s fair.  We’ve both missed each other a lot.”

They sit outside and talk, swinging their legs back and forth as they sit on the bench and look at the sky, occasionally sipping at their juice.  Mila spends every minute intensely conscious of Sara’s body against hers, certain that right now she could die happy, when a third voice joins them—

“Sorry to interrupt, but could I join you ladies?” Lady Anya Ryabova asks, approaching from behind.  Mila blinks, glancing at Sara, and then nods her assent.

“Sure thing, Anya,” she says, making room on the bench by scooting closer to Sara, who does not seem to mind in the slightest.  “What’s up?”

Anya sighs.  “Lord Popovich,” she says, sounding aggrieved.  “I know he has … _feelings_ for me, and I thought I’ve made it clear I’m not interested, but he’s like a persistent puppy that doesn’t understand the word ‘no’.  I would feel bad for kicking a puppy, but sometimes he makes me sincerely consider it anyway.”

Sara winces.  “Ouch,” she says sympathetically.  “I’m sorry, Lady Ryabova!”

“Oh, please,” Anya waves a hand.  “It’s Anya.  We’re all friends here, right?”

Sara’s face lights up.  “Right!” she says cheerfully.  “I just didn’t want to presume, that’s all.”

Although Anya’s presence means the soft intimacy is gone, Mila thoroughly enjoys sitting outside in the moonlight between the two of them.  Sara regales them with a tale of her adventures in court with Prince Michele and exclaims at the softness and volume of Anya’s hair, Anya shares her hair care routine in detail, and Mila tells them both about the latest shenanigans that Yura got into.

As if summoned, Yura himself appears at some point.  With no preamble, he stalks up to Anya and informs her, “Georgi is looking for you.  In case you wanted to know,” and then scowls before he marches away.  Anya sighs.

“I can go talk to him,” Mila offers, as any good friend would.

“I’ll come with you?” Sara says immediately, giving her a squeeze.  “If you want, I mean…”

“Of course!” Mila says quickly. “I’d like that, and we can go back to dancing after we talk to him.”

Sara smiles radiantly (all of her smiles are radiant).  “I’d like that,” she echoes in agreement.  She pauses, glancing at Anya. “Will you be okay?”

Anya nods quickly.  “Yes, probably.  Thank you for distracting him!  I’ll just use that to slip back inside and he won’t notice.”

Armed with their solid plan, the three of them start heading toward the doors.  They’re almost inside when Mila pauses.

“Wait,” she says, realization dawning.  “Wouldn’t it be smarter if you went straight to the dance floor with either me or Sara?  No, with Sara—he wouldn’t be able to step in that way, it’d be super rude.  And I could go talk to him in the meantime so he doesn’t notice when you leave the floor.”

“Oh,” Sara says.  Then she laughs.  “Good plan!  I’m surprised we didn’t think of that first.”

Anya laughs, too, sounding distinctly relieved.  “Yeah, me too,” she admits.  Then she smiles at Sara.  “May I have the next dance, my lady?”

“I would love nothing more,” Sara answers, and Mila pretends she doesn’t regret the fact that she has to let go of her for this plan to work.

Armed with their new, even more solid plan, they reenter the ballroom.  Sara and Anya make a beeline for the dance floor, while Mila peers around until she spots Georgi’s forlorn head.  To her surprise, he’s not moping around alone, but is instead talking to… ah, that’s Viktor and Yuuri.

“Don’t go over there,” Yura’s voice appears at her elbow, and she almost jumps.

“Why not?”

“Viktor has been flirting with Katsudon nonstop for like, the entire night, and it’s making me physically ill,” Yura answers, glaring daggers at the back of his cousin’s head.  Yuuri glances around, almost as if he can feel the force of Yura’s animosity, but doesn’t seem to think there’s much cause for alarm.  He does step a little closer to Viktor, though, as he rejoins the conversation, which is kind of cute.  Viktor looks pleased, too.

“Has Yuuri noticed?” she asks wryly, because the fact that Viktor’s attempts at flirtation always seem to slide off Yuuri like water on a duck’s back is a fact that gives her no small amount of amusement.

“What do you _think_?” huffs Yura.  “There is a _reason_ I feel sick.  Maybe if Katsudon figured it out, they’d go like, be gross in private and I wouldn’t have to look at _that_ all the time.”

“Oh, Prince Yuri,” Mila sighs, stifling a laugh.  “I think you have a fundamental misunderstanding of how couples work.  Anyway, come on!  Let’s go talk to them.”

“What?  No,” Yura glares, but when she starts walking, he falls into step behind her anyway, just like she knew he would.  “Ugh,” he mutters.  “I hate you all.”

“Whatever you say, Yura,” Mila hums, and dodges out of the way with the ease of practice when he aims a swat at her head.

* * *

 

“Did you enjoy tonight?” Viktor asks, beaming down at Yuuri as he walks him back to his suite.  “I know I did.”

“Me too,” Yuuri says, and Viktor grins even more broadly.  He’s glad Yuuri enjoyed himself, too!

“It’s too bad you stayed away from the alcohol,” he muses, teasing, and glances at Yuuri out of the corner of his eye.  “It was quite charming when you swept me off my feet last time.”

Yuuri’s cheeks turn pink alarmingly fast, and he hides his face in his hands.  It’s incredibly endearing, especially the part where they’re still walking and he’s relying on Viktor’s hand at his back to keep him from walking into anything while his face is hidden.  “I act so silly when I get even a little bit past tipsy,” he mumbles.  “Don’t remind me…”

“I thought it was cute,” Viktor assures him.  Somehow, if the noise Yuuri is making is anything to judge by, that doesn’t seem to make it any better.

“Let’s talk about something other than how stupid I act when I have alcohol,” Yuuri suggests (begs, really).

“Alright, if you insist,” Viktor says, “although I still think that it was a perfectly good night and you didn’t do much of anything wrong.  Anyway, we can talk about tonight instead!  Even though we spent practically all of it together anyway, so I’m not sure what there is to talk about.  What did you think of the Crispinos?”

Yuuri seems to shift entirely when they go from laughing and joking to talking business and politics.  He holds himself a little bit differently, a thoughtful expression on his face, and says, “I think I overall got good impressions from both of them.  Prince Crispino seemed like he was trying too hard to be intimidating, and I think he was uncomfortable with some things, but overall his heart is in the right place, as far as I could tell, and Princess Crispino was surprisingly genuine.  I don’t think we talked to their retinue enough for me to have an accurate read on them, though.”

Viktor hums.  “So you don’t think the Prince and Princess acted suspicious, though?”

Yuuri shakes his head.  “Not that I could tell,” he says.  “I mean, it’s always possible that I could’ve missed something, but they both seemed honest to me.”

“Alright,” Viktor says.  “We don’t know that there is a plot, either.  It’s just a thought, something to watch out for.  Don’t worry about it!  We’ll find out more tomorrow, anyway.  Parties are always farces.  Everyone pretends to have a good time and hides their true motivations, but those always come out in court and at the meetings.”

“Yes,” Yuuri agrees.  He glances up at Viktor as they round the corner, nearing his rooms. “…I didn’t get the sense that you were pretending to have a good time, though.  Were you?”

Viktor smiles genuinely.  “No,” he says.  “Not this time.  This time, I was actually enjoying myself.  Mostly thanks to you.”

Yuuri looks relieved, smiling back, as they stop in front of his door.  “Oh,” he says.  “Okay.  Good.  Um, I’m glad, to hear that.”

“Yes,” Viktor says, amused.  It’s easy to slide his hand from where it rests at the small of Yuuri’s back to his hip, pulling him close for a quick hug.  “Well, given that it’s midnight, I guess I should let you rest,” he says, drawing back.  Yuuri lingers for a moment, staying close, which is rather nice, before he steps away and nods.

“Good night, Viktor,” he says.  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Good night!” Viktor says.  He waits until Yuuri’s door closes with a _click_ before he walks away.

* * *

 

[00:04] Yuuri:  
alright, so i know you’re asleep considering it’s 4 in the morning  
but when you wake up i could use some advice?

[00:05] homobipboa:  
sup?

[00:05] Yuuri:  
WHY ARE YOU AWAKE

[00:05] homobipboa:  
what kind of advice are we talking here?

[00:06] Yuuri:  
ITS LIKE. PAST 4 IN XIAN PHICHIT WTF

[00:06] homobipboa:  
yuuri. tell me what kind of advice you need and ill tell you why im awake.  
is it the kind of advice where im gonna have to come over there and stab a mofo

[00:07] Yuuri:  
no!!!!!!!!! it’s nothing like that omg  
its  
um  
……romantic advice?  
now why are u awake

[00:07] homobipboa:  
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ROMANTIC ADVICE!??!!?!!!!!!!!!  
i am awake, bc……….  
Reasons™ ¯\\_( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)_/¯  
NOW GIMME THE DEETS???? is it viktor?? is it someone else??? no, viktor, right????

[00:08] Yuuri:  
THAT IS NOT AN ANSWER SHAME ON YOU  
it’s definitely viktor…………  
phichit this is so awkward fml what do u do when u have a crush on ur own fiancé

[00:08] homobipboa:  
yuuri  
im laughing  
ur falling in love with ur arranged fiancé  
ur life sounds like one of those trashy romance novels

[00:09] Yuuri:  
i knowww shut upppp  
besides im p sure a novel has to be like over 50000 words or whatever and my life isnt interesting enough for that lol  
also this is not advice???? ur so unhelpful

[00:09] homobipboa:  
alright hows this:  
get drunk, pole dance for him, sweep him off his feet, and seduce him w the power of ur thighs

[00:10] Yuuri:  
…  
alright! lets go back to the romance novel thing, that was the worst idea i’ve ever read

[00:10] homobipboa:  
yuuri its 4 in the fuckign morning idk what kind of advice u expect to get out of me

[00:10] Yuuri:  
go to bed!!!!!!!!!!

[00:11] homobipboa:  
plot twist i AM in bed  
now tell me more abt viktooooorrrrrr

[00:11] Yuuri:  
nope u ruined ur own chances with the pole dancing. ill tell u tomorrow u should sleep now

[00:12] homobipboa:  
is this just u looking for excuses to get out of me interrogating u or something

[00:12] Yuuri:  
no this is me being concerned for your health!!!  
the sooner u sleep the sooner i spill!!!! good night!!!!

[00:12] homobipboa:  
fiiiiiiiiiine but i expect the DEETS tomorrow  
good night yuuri! <3

[00:13] Yuuri:  
<3!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: "gee thanks past me, this outline note for ch 6 is helpful. "set up chapter 7"?? thanks wtf do i even put in it, how will i even get this to 7000 words"  
> me, one week and 18k words later: ah,,
> 
> 1\. "in chapter two, if viktor read his wikipedia page, how come he seemed surprised to find yuuri's an empath?" asked absolutely nobody, but in case you were wondering heeere's the answer! yuuri doesn't make it publicly known. there's actually a good deal of speculation as to whether he just doesn't practice magic or not but he ignores that
> 
> 2\. this isn't so much of a story note but i have to say every time i see someone say they hate ivanovich i have to wonder if that means i'm writing a believable antagonist or making him too one-dimensionally evil, aaaaaaa????
> 
> 3\. if you guys would like, maybe leave me songs that you think fit this au? i'm trying to make myself a mood music playlist for getting into That Writing Feel haha!
> 
> 4\. alright i give up on formatting but just know that the part where viktor sends the "!!!!" and "♥"s to mila was originally a paragraph's worth of heart-eyed emojis, rainbows, sparkle-hearts, and all the multicolored hearts. :(
> 
> 5\. MILASARA MILASARA MILASARA MILASARA MILASARA
> 
> thank you again for the support and lovely comments! ♥ i hope you like this chapter, even if it is kind of slow!


	7. as the dark clouds keep gathering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mila asks a question she's been meaning to ask for a long time, negotiations with Víteliú draw to a close, and Yuuri considers Viktor's eyelashes.

[9:08] Yuri Plisetsky:  
ugh

[9:09] Beka:  
Good morning.

[9:09] Yuri Plisetsky:  
i dont wanna get out of bed  
what if i just go back to sleep rn  
i feel like i have somewhere to be but im too sleepy and i don’t care enough to remember

[9:10] Beka:  
Aren’t you supposed to be having breakfast with, among others, your aunt?  In twenty minutes??

[9:10] Yuri Plisetsky:  
FCUK

[9:10] Beka:  
…Good luck

[9:24] Yuri Plisetsky:  
ok i think i just set a new record for lowest time to get ready ever  
thanks for reminding me lmao

[9:25] Beka:  
No problem  
Glad you made it on time

[9:26] Yuri Plisetsky:  
haha yeah im walking to the sitting room rn  
breakfast w the whole family… should be fun

[9:26] Beka:  
…Again, good luck

* * *

 

It’s a beautiful day outside, perfect for going out for smoothies and taking the scenic route back.  It’s a beautiful day, and Princess Sara Crispino, second in line to the throne of Víteliú and beloved twin sister to Crown Prince Michele, darling of her country, et cetera et cetera, has a problem.  A very, very massive problem.  In fact, it is nothing short of a crisis.

And what is this crisis?

“Sorry, sorry, just a second,” Mila says, apologetic laughter in her voice.  “I think like _all_ of my lip gloss ended up on the straw and there’s none left on my face.  I really need to get some of that nice stain that doesn’t come off on stuff, but I _like_ gloss, you know?”

“I like liquid lipsticks, personally,” Sara hears herself say absently, but she can’t really bring herself to focus on conversation _that_ much because Mila has just pulled a compact mirror from her purse and a tube of lip gloss from her pocket and she’s reapplying it, right here, right in front of Sara, as they stand alone together under the trees lining the path back to the palace, and they’re alone and her lips are pink and…

Sara has never kissed anyone before, but boy oh boy would she like to.

Mila hums in response, unable to speak because of the aforementioned lip gloss that she is currently applying, and good lord, Sara is _really_ trying not to stare, but it’s soft pink and shiny and—

“Is that glitter?” she asks, subconsciously leaning in a bit closer before realizing what she’s doing and stopping herself.  Is she blushing?  Please let her not be blushing.  “Your lip gloss has glitter in it?”

Mila winks, capping the tube again and giving herself a quick final inspection before closing the mirror.  “Yup!” she says, popping the P.  “It’s strawberry flavored, too.  Wanna try some on?”

Sara has never really been given to impulsive decisions.  She tends to fret about things to herself, knowing that an issue exists that needs to be resolved but always worrying about actually _doing_ something to resolve it, though she’s great at putting her foot down when she actually has to.  But taking the initiative on some kinds of things is, um, not her strong suit.

So she really doesn’t know _what_ possesses her to say “Sure!” and then lean in the rest of the way, but somehow it ends with her clumsily pressing her lips to Mila’s, and, um, oh _god what is she doing_ —

Mila is staring at her, wide-eyed.

“Wow,” Sara says frantically.  “That’s… that’s definitely strawberry, yup!”

“Are you…”  Mila shakes her head, and Sara internally cringes, because she probably _totally_ misread the situation and oh no what if Mila’s mad at her?  Would finding out that Sara’s been in love with her for at least a year now ruin their friendship? 

“Sorry,” she starts to squeak out, face burning as she hides behind her hands, but Mila’s already talking again.

“Are you telling me,” she says, and that’s funny, because she doesn’t sound mad at all.  She actually almost sounds like she’s trying to withhold laughter.  “Are you actually telling me that I’ve spent _ages_ wondering how I should confess to you, and when I should ask you if you’d let me officially court you and—and all of that’s for nothing because you just pulled a cliché rom-com move on me and you did it so well you _literally_ left me speechless for a minute?”

Mila _pouts_.  Her eyes are dancing with suppressed mirth, though, and she pries Sara’s hands away from her face with a firm but gentle touch.

“Wait,” Sara blinks.  The uncertainty is starting to drain away, replaced by incredulous disbelief that this is—is this really, really happening?  Oh, wow, this is really actually happening, _wow, wow wow wow!_ “Wait, you—asking to court— _oh!_ ”

“Oh,” Mila agrees, and then she’s laughing with wild abandon, head tipped back and eyes closed in that way that makes it pretty much impossible for Sara to resist flinging her arms around her.  She yelps when Mila scoops her up and twirls her around, though, laughing brightly as she clutches her tightly.

“Well,” Sara says, giddy with heady glee, “now might be a nice time.”

Mila blinks, setting her on the floor again but not letting go, and then grins.  “Oh!  Right, of course.  Well, _Your Highness_ , would you do me the honor of allowing me to formally court you?  I swear, I will fight for your hand—no, seriously though, if it ever comes up, just show me who I need to punch, and I will deck a man—”

“Mila!” Sara giggles, exuberance spilling out as laughter.  “No punching anyone, that’s unnecessary!  And _yes_ , of course, I would love nothing more!”  She finally pulls away, though she grabs Mila’s hand almost immediately.  “Come on, let’s go back downtown.  It’ll be our first date!”

“Did going out together all the other times not count?” Mila asks, hanging back near the path back to the palace, and Sara wrinkles her nose.

“Our first _official_ date,” she says wryly.  “Come on!  I want pictures!  We’re gonna document today!  It’s _important!_ ”

“Okay, okay!” Mila laughs, but she tugs Sara back instead of following immediately.  “Just a second, though.  Before we go, I mean.  Can I kiss you again?  Well—not _again_ , because technically you kissed me, and I want to set this score even, so…”

Sara laughs at her, flipping her hair over her shoulder.  “You don’t need to come up with excuses, you know,” she teases, and Mila grins.

“Wonderful,” she says.  “I’ll be _sure_ to keep that in mind.  Come here, you,” and she hooks her free arm around Sara’s waist, drawing her in again.  Sara squeezes her eyes shut, unable to stop smiling as her stomach fills with flutters of anticipation, and then Mila is kissing her, much slower than Sara kissed her earlier.  It’s gentle and Mila seems to know what she’s doing, and it lingers, even after she pulls away.  Sara buries her face in her hands for a second to squeal excitedly, and Mila bursts out laughing.

“You’re so _cute_ ,” she says, keeping her arm wrapped around Sara’s waist, and Sara beams at her.

“You are, too!”

They head into town again together, arms around each other, and Sara makes sure to take lots of selfies just to document this, their first date.  She _might_ be a bit of a romantic at heart, but it’s really nice to think about just… looking back on this, years down the road, maybe when they’re old and grey and married and still in love.  Is it too soon to think about marriage for real?  Definitely.  Is Sara going to daydream about her wedding day the way she has all her life anyway?  Oh, _absolutely_.

Humming to herself as Mila leads her to a bookstore that she says she thinks Sara will like, she licks her lips and immediately has to remind herself to keep walking, instead of freezing up and just standing there, wide-eyed.

(Her lips still taste like strawberries.)

* * *

 

[12:30] Michele Crispino:  
Where are you???

[12:38] Sara:  
Out with Mila!  
I told you yesterday that she and I would be going out in the morning…

[12:39] Michele Crispino:  
I know, I know, sorry.  I just got worried, because it’s past noon and I still hadn’t heard from you.  
Anything can happen, we’re not in Víteliú…

[12:40] Sara:  
Shush Mickey, I’m fine!!!  
We’re on our way back to the palace now anyway.  Oh! Actually, there’s something I want to tell you!

[12:41] Michele Crispino:  
What’s that?  Are you okay?

[12:42] Sara:  
Hahaha yes you worry-wart!  I’m fine, it’s good news, and I want to tell you in person.  
Mila says hi!

[12:43] Michele Crispino:  
Alright, alright.  Hello, Lady Mila.  I’ll see you soon?

[12:45] Sara:  
Yup! :)

* * *

When they get back to the palace, Mila smiles apologetically and says that it’s Friday, which means she owes Prince Plisetsky some sparring practice, so Sara bids her farewell for the time being and practically skips up the stairs to the guest wing, stranded somewhere on cloud nine as she heads for Mickey’s room.  This is really, actually happening, and she couldn’t be more excited!

“Mickey?” she calls, knocking twice.  “It’s me!”

“Come in,” her brother replies immediately, and she swings the door open, beaming.

“Guess what?”

Mickey raises an eyebrow curiously.  “What?  You look happy.”

Sara giggles, closing the door behind herself and dropping down onto the couch next to him.  “I _am_ happy!” she says.  “Mila asked if she could court me!”  _And I said yes_ surely goes without saying—even if she doesn’t really talk about her love life much with Mickey because of his silly overprotective tendencies, he _has_ to know she’s head over heels for Mila.

Mickey blinks.  For a moment, Sara thinks he’s going to smile and just be happy for her, like she so desperately wants him to, but then the beginnings of a frown start to tug at his eyebrows, and the light in her smile fades.

She sighs.

“Mickey.”

“I didn’t even say _anything_ ,” he protests, but there’s the stubborn set to his jaw that she knows so well, and yeah, maybe he hasn’t said anything yet, but he sure as hell looks like he’s going to.

“You look mad,” she informs him tartly.  “If you do have something to say, just go ahead and get it out.”

“I’m not _mad_ ,” Mickey says carefully, his brows knitting together.  “I just… don’t think it’s the best idea.”

Impatience wins out over her careful consideration of her brother’s feelings, and she crosses her arms with an incredulous snort.  “Mickey, don’t give me that!  In terms of politics, you _know_ Mila’s a good match for me, especially given Prince Nikiforov’s engagement to Prince Katsuki.  Politically speaking, you and I are both perfectly aware that marrying a close ally of House Nikiforov is a good way to cement our loyalties with them, so that clearly isn’t your problem here!”

“I’m just—I worry about you, Sara,” Mickey says honestly, and he looks… he doesn’t look mad anymore, and she feels a little guilty for snapping at him.  Just a little, though, because he still sounds like he’s going to try and argue this with her instead of accepting that her life is hers to control.  “I don’t want you to get hurt, and…”

“Mickey,” she sighs, resting a hand on his shoulder.  “I know you care about me, but I need you to realize that locking me away from _anything_ that could ever hurt me is also a way of hurting me.  It’s _my_ life, Mickey.  I want to court Mila and I wish you would respect that.  If I end up getting hurt, fine!  It’s better than living my entire life on the outside of everything just for the fear that it _might_ end badly.  I don’t want to live like that.”

“I just wish—Sara, you should have told me before making any decisions about it,” Mickey says, and he sounds almost _hurt_ , but that’s—that’s frankly ridiculous.  Sara sits back with a huff.

“Look,” she says.  “Not only is it my life and my choices, but it’s also my _duty_.   You want to keep me safe, and I _appreciate_ it, Mickey, I do!  I love you, you’re my brother and I don’t want to argue with you!  I just wanted you to be happy about something that made me happy!”  Shaking her head, she stands up again, walking away.  “I didn’t come here to debate the merits and drawbacks of my relationship with Mila with you, I came here to tell you that I have a girlfriend now.  And since you’re being stubborn again, I—I’m going to go out with her to have a conversation that’s actually _nice_.  Talk to me later.”

“Sara!” Mickey exclaims, and he jumps to his feet and reaches for her, but she dodges out of his reach and out the door again, running away until she turns enough corners to feel like Mickey isn’t following her and slumps against the wall, eyes wide.

She feels so bad for saying that!  Mickey only meant well, he just worries too much about everything and _yes_ it bothers her that he’s so dependent on her and wants her to depend on him that much too, but—she was harsh with him and she feels _so bad!_

“Princess Crispino?”

The soft, hesitant voice makes her jump, eyes flying wide open.  “Oh!”

“I’m so sorry!” Prince Katsuki exclaims, his hands flying up to wave apologetically.  She almost didn’t recognize him for a moment, dressed as he is in much more casual attire than normal.  “I didn’t mean to startle you!  Are you alright?”

Prince Katsuki seems like a sweet and genuine person, from what she’s seen of him.  Plus, he’s a friend of Mila’s, which makes Sara feel like he’s at least somewhat trustworthy.  She offers a shaky smile and manages, “Thank you for the concern, Your Highness.  I, um, just had a bit of an argument with my brother, that’s all.”

“Oh,” Prince Katsuki says, brows knitting together with concern.  “I’m sorry to hear that!  Is, um… I guess it’s not all okay, if you’re… upset in a hallway—I mean—is there anything I can do?  Or would you prefer to be alone?  I can leave, really, it’s no problem…”

Sara finds herself laughing a breathy little (maybe hysterical) laugh.  “No, no, it’s okay!  Thank you.  I, um… actually, I’m not entirely sure where in the palace we _are?_   Could you maybe help me get back to the main courtyard?  I think I just need a little walk, to help me calm down, and then I can talk to Mickey later.  Really, it’s nothing major, you don’t need to worry.”

Relief flickers in Prince Katsuki’s eyes. “Of course!” he says.  “It’s right this way, I can walk you there.”

“Thank you,” Sara says gratefully.  When Prince Katsuki offers his arm, she takes it, and he leads her back down the hall she came from, bizarrely enough.  “Gosh… Petersburg Palace has such a confusing layout!”

Prince Katsuki laughs softly.  “It does,” he agrees.  “I’ve been living here for months and I still don’t think I know my way around that well.  Did you know that the west wing and the east wing don’t actually line up?  If you go up past the second story in either wing, you can’t get to the other without either going further up or back down.  And the fourth floor on the west wing lines up with the fifth floor of the east wing, but not quite perfectly.  There’s ramps connecting them.”

“Wow,” Sara says.  “That sounds confusing.  Have you ever gotten lost?”

“Once,” Prince Katsuki says, a bashful smile tugging at his lips.  “I prefer to say I was exploring, but the truth is I didn’t remember which staircase to take to get back to my room.  Don’t tell Prince Yuri—he found me in a library, called me a nerd, and made me come with him to dinner so that he wouldn’t have to deal with everyone else alone, supposedly.  He doesn’t know that he’s the only reason I found my way to dinner at all.”

Sara laughs.  “I won’t tell him,” she assures.  It’s a little easier to breathe now that she has something else to focus on, instead of fretting and worrying about Mickey and what just happened and _everything_ , so she tries her best not to think about it too hard for now.  Letting herself calm down and then thinking about how to fix it will work a lot better in the long run, anyway; it’s not like this is the first time she and Mickey have argued about his overbearing tendencies, and trying to resolve it while they’re still both in the heat of the moment almost always ends in tears.  “…Thank you,” she says again, and this time she isn’t talking about taking her to the courtyard.

Prince Katsuki’s gentle smile makes her feel that he knows exactly what she means.  “It’s my pleasure.”

“I hope I’m not making you go too far out of your way,” she adds, a little guiltily, but Prince Katsuki shakes his head quickly.

“Not at all!” he assures.  “I was going to the sparring grounds in one of the side courtyards, so almost to the same place.”

“Sparring grounds?” Sara asks.  That _would_ explain why he’s wearing what appear to be exercise clothes, instead of the more customary formal regal outfits from Hinomoto that she’s seen on him in the past few days.  “That’s where Mila and Prince Plisetsky are right now, isn’t it?”

Prince Katsuki nods.  “Prince Yuri is training for the annual tournament—it’s held every winter, you know?—and Lady Mila is his usual opponent, but last weekend I stepped in since she was busy, and he seems to have decided he has an interest in attempting to beat me into the ground now, so… it looks like I’ll be training with him after she’s done.”

“Can we go watch them?” Sara blurts.  If she could pick any distraction from thinking about Mickey and his stupid overprotectiveness and her own refusal to back down, watching Mila spar would probably be somewhere near the top of the list.

Prince Katsuki blinks as if he didn’t expect that, but then he nods again.  “I don’t see why not.”

She does her best to memorize the series of turns and passages and stairwells that they pass by on their way out of the palace, and soon enough they’re emerging back into the sunshine.  How odd, that less than an hour ago she was enjoying the day to its fullest, out with Mila, without Mickey and his _Mickeyness_ weighing on her mind.  How nice that was.  In fact—

“You know what?” she decides, mostly to herself, but since Prince Katsuki is right there, he raises an eyebrow.

“What?”

“I’m not going to let Mickey ruin today for me,” she declares.  “I’m going to talk to him after the dance tonight, but I’m going to enjoy the rest of my day, and he’s not going to stop me.”

Prince Katsuki smiles again.  “Good for you,” he says warmly.  “I hope you do enjoy it.”

He leads her through the courtyard and around the corner of the gardens, and they reach a large clearing.  There’s no grass here; it’s all hard-packed dirt, and there are pavillions around for viewing platforms and several divisions into smaller rings, too.  There are several figures practicing, some running drills alone and some sparring with partners; looking around, Sara spots a flash of red hair and realizes that Mila’s not too far away, dancing around Prince Plisetsky.

“There they are!” she exclaims, grabbing Prince Katsuki’s arm in excitement.  Swordplay isn’t as rooted in tradition in Víteliú—there’s no annual tournament with heaps of accolades for the victor, or anything like that—and she rarely gets the chance to see it up close.  Knowing one of the combatants personally just makes it even _more_ thrilling, and she has to admit that she actually squeaks when Prince Plisetsky nearly lands a hit on Mila’s side, missing by a hair’s breadth.  “Come on, we have to go closer!”

Prince Katsuki laughs.  “Of course, of course.  Would you rather go sit down in the shade, or…?”

Sara shrugs, not taking her eyes away from the spectacle.  Mila lunges forward, her practice blade clashing against Prince Plisetsky’s with a ringing crash as he blocks.  This is so intense to watch!  “I’m fine standing, it’s not that hot!”

“Alright!”  Prince Katsuki lets her tug him toward the sparring circle, Mickey already almost forgotten.  This is definitely a lot more interesting _and_ entertaining, anyway!

She ends up plopping herself down in the grass just outside the sparring ring, and Prince Katsuki sits next to her calmly.  He’s watching carefully, she notices during one of the spare moments when she tears her gaze away.

“Hey there, beautiful!” Mila sings out.  “I didn’t know—” she breaks off to duck under a sudden slice from Prince Plisetsky, then grins, “—that you were coming to watch!”

“I swear to _god!_ ” Prince Plisetsky yells.  “I do _not_ want to hear _more_ flirting!”

“Don’t get angry, Yura,” Mila says, and Sara lets out a cheer when she taps Prince Plisetsky’s shoulder with the flat of her practice sword.  “You get sloppy when you’re mad!”

“And don’t forget to move your feet!” Prince Katsuki adds as Prince Plisetsky scowls, bats her blade aside, and resumes a starting stance.

“Don’t give him _tips!_ ” Mila exclaims.  “Who’s side are you on, anyway?”

“Shut up, Babacheva, Katsudon _obviously_ likes me better,” Prince Plisetsky grunts, launching himself into a quick in-and-out attack that forces Mila backwards, on the defensive.

“This is so _exciting_ ,” Sara whispers, hands clasped together under her chin.  “Would it be distracting if I cheered for her?”

“Possibly,” Prince Katsuki answers wryly.  “Sorry.  But watching is still nice, right?”

“Right!” she agrees immediately, content to sit back (well, as much as she can while in so much suspense) and observe.  Plus, Mila looks _good_.

All in all, it’s a very pleasant way to spend her afternoon.

* * *

 

There are a million—no, a _billion_ —actually, at least a _trillion_ things that Yuri would rather be doing right now.  Just about anything would be better than _this_ , actually, and that includes watching Viktor pathetically throw himself at Katsudon and his oblivious ass for hours on end.  God, where _is_ Viktor anyway?  That asshole.  He was supposed to be down here, because he is the person Yuri was _supposed_ to be talking to, instead of…

“Hasn’t it been quite the exciting week?” Lord Ivanovich is saying to Lady Golovkina, smiling congenially.  “It’s been a while since I’ve seen most members of the Vítelien court, personally.  It’s nice to have them over.”

“Hmm, yes,” Lady Golovkina says in her stupid, breathy voice.  Yuri hates her voice.  He knows people can’t really help the way they sound, and Lady Golovkina is pretty nice, all things considered, but ugh, her _voice_ is one of the most grating, annoying sounds he’s ever heard. “I have my reservations about the negotiations, you know, but all the partying certainly has been fun!  Don’t you think so, Prince Plisetsky?”

Also she kind of tends to talk down to him, like he’s just a little kid, which really fucking drives him up the wall.

“I guess,” Yuri says, because he’s unfortunately constrained by the rules of politeness and is not allowed to say _fuck off with that patronizing shit_ like he would prefer to.  He does not say anything else.  He doesn’t want to _be here_.  He’s fresh from a nice, rejuvenating shower and he _was_ in a good mood, right until he ran into _these two_ …

“You seem taciturn today, Prince Plisetsky,” Lord Ivanovich observes.  Yuri resists the urge to roll his eyes.  “Is everything alright?”

“Of course,” Yuri says, frowning.  “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“No reason, I suppose,” Lord Ivanovich says mildly.  “I was just concerned.  Pardon me if I’m overstepping my bounds, but it seemed to me that you’ve been a bit tense lately.  Is it something to do with your cousin’s engagement?”

Yuri frowns.  Ivanovich is _not_ a friend and he knows it; hell, he’s definitely heard Viktor whine about his stupid face enough.  But he’s acting friendly now—Viktor and Aunt Vasilisa both warned him about this, too, as if he’s stupid enough to blindly listen to any guy who talks to him nicely and to hop into the goddamn metaphorical white van.  Honestly.

Anyway, he’s probably trying to play up Yuri’s supposed disdain for Viktor and to drive a rift between them.  Tough fucking luck for him, though.  Whatever Yuri might feel about his cousin, it’s between the two of them, and he’s sure as hell not going to let _Ivanovich_ of all people get between them.

“No,” he answers.  “I’m fine, thanks.”

 _Ugh_.  Talking to Viktor is _definitely_ better than this, infinitely so, because at least Yuri can call him a shitty old man to his face with no repercussions.  Here?  Not so much.

(Besides, Viktor isn’t _actually_ a shitty old man.  As far as Yuri’s concerned, Ivanovich is.  It just fucking sucks that he can only call the wrong one names.  Not that he’ll admit that to Viktor anytime soon.)

“Well, I am glad to hear that,” Lord Ivanovich says, and he sounds sincere, like he actually cares about whether Yuri has been stressed lately. 

Yuri resists the urge to roll his eyes again.  It’s so annoying that he has to be such an _asshole_.  Like, in terms of policy and shit.  He seems like he’d be a pretty decent person if he would just get his head out of his ass and accept that maybe Ruthenia doesn’t _need_ to invest fuckall in the military, except that he has both family history _and_ monetary investment in the military, among other things, which means that his head is lodged firmly somewhere in his esophagus—and yes, that is coming from the ass end.

Ugh.  _Ugh_.  It just makes him so mad!  He’s like a douchebag grandpa!  He has the _potential_ to be an alright person, but he just _has_ to waste it on being like _this_.  Sometimes, Yuri just wants to grab him and the others who agree with him by the shoulders and shake them and yell _what year do you think it is?  What fucking year?_ because the days of military expansion are pretty much _over_ , and they need to get over it!

“Yeah,” he says instead of any of that, short and concise and eloquent as ever.

“Did you enjoy the banquet yesterday, Prince Plisetsky?” croons Lady Golovkina, and Yuri presses his lips together to keep himself from shuddering at the annoying gratingness of her voice or yelling at the annoying quality of her words.  “That black forest trifle was to _die_ for!”

“It was nice, I guess,” Yuri agrees flatly, then pointedly adds, “I was more interested in talking to Duchess Ricci about the trade negotiations, though.”  He’s not a goddamn _child_.  He’s capable of talking about more than just some fucking chocolate and whipped cream trifle, even if it _was_ really good.

“Oh?” Lady Golovkina asks, her hand fluttering to the brooch at her throat for a moment, as if she’s actually surprised he knows about the reason for the entire fucking week of dealing with Víteliens.  “I’m glad you had a good time, Prince Plisetsky!  Duchess Ricci seems so nice.”

Oh, for _fuck’s_ sake.

“Yeah,” Yuri agrees again.  It’s getting really hard not to roll his eyes, politeness be damned, and at this point, the thought of receiving another disapproving look from Grandpa is pretty much the only thing stopping him from just telling these two to can it and then walking away.  “She’s pretty interested in expanding the reach of the continental trade corridor through more regions of Ruthenia than just the westernmost.”

 _Ha_.  He won’t lie, there’s a little bit of vindictive glee at seeing Lady Golovkina’s face sour at the mention of an expanded trade corridor.  She’s well-known for being one of the main isolationists in Queen Nikiforova’s court, which is why she and Lord Ivanovich get along sometimes—both of them are opponents of the alliance with Hinomoto, and both of them are especially opposed to the mutual defense clause it involves.

“Ah,” she simpers, floundering for a moment, and Yuri hides a smirk by tucking his hair behind his ears.  “Well, I’m not so sure if I would agree with _that_ , but I’m glad you had a good time.”

“But why not?” Lord Ivanovich asks her, cutting in smoothly, and for a moment Yuri almost likes him purely because he diverted Lady Golovkina’s attention.  “Surely you can see the appeal of strengthening bonds with our known allies, Svetlana.”

Lady Golovkina sighs.  “You _know_ you and I don’t agree on that point, my dearest Alexei,” she says with an odd little smile.  Yuri stares back and forth between them incredulously.  What _is_ this?  Golovkina’s one of the isolationists—she’s actually kind of anti-military in general, and wants to focus on developing infrastructure, education, and other internal affairs!  She and Ivanovich aren’t _friends_.  Are they like, _hateflirting_ , over his head?

Holy _fuck_ does he want to get out of here.

“Well, I can always try to persuade you, again,” Lord Ivanovich persists.

Lady Golovkina laughs her breathy, annoying laugh.  “Or I can try to persuade _you!_   Come now, Alexei, don’t you think it’s much more important to focus on Ruthenia, before we turn our gaze anywhere else?  Our country has problems that we need to fix, and getting pointlessly embroiled in foreign affairs is doing the _opposite_ of helping us fix them.”

Can he like… just walk away?  Could he do that?  Words cannot possibly express how much Yuri actually _does not_ want to listen to them both spout their own creeds at each other.  Idiots, anyone looking at them can already see that they’re not going to persuade each other!  They’re both _notorious_ in court circles for being so entrenched in their own ideas— _argh_ , this is so _stupid!_

Honestly, he just wants to get out of Petersburg for a while.  Beka invited him over for a few weeks in late summer, because of a big cultural Qazraziin festival thing, and he’s pretty sure he’s gonna accept that invitation.  He just has to officially clear it with the Queen first, but she’ll probably say yes—he knows she’s pleased that he and Beka managed to become such close friends.  It’ll help with the development of Ruthenia’s relationship with Qazrazi after Qazrazi seceded a few generations ago, because Yuri’s eventually going to lead Ruthenia and Beka’s eventually going to lead Qazrazi, and the two of them are thick as thieves.

So, yeah.

Qazrazi, yup, that sounds great.

Being stuck literally between Lord Ivanovich and Lady Golovkina as they once again debate the merits of each other’s preferred party platforms?

Not so much.

 _Ugh_.  They’re _still_ talking.  Even though he zoned out and stared at the wall for a solid minute.

“Well,” Lady Golovkina is saying, “at least we see eye-to-eye on _some_ things.  After all, we can still agree that the mutual defense clause of the alliance with Hinomoto is a mistake, don’t you think?”

“Wholeheartedly agreed,” Lord Ivanovich nods.  “Obligating ourselves to aid another country if they should throw themselves into a stupid war is a terrible idea, as far as I can see.  Hinomoto stands to gain far more from that clause than Ruthenia does, and frankly, I have to say I’m a little skeptical of the crown’s negotiators for allowing that to happen.”

He glances at Yuri as he says this, as if gauging him for any sort of reaction.  Well, fuck _that_ noise; Yuri isn’t gonna give him that kind of satisfation.  He just looks back, face as neutral as he can make it while consciously resisting the urge to scowl.

It’s stupid, being the heir’s heir.  He’s part of the royal family, but he’s not officially part of the single cohesive unit that Viktor and Queen Vasilisa are.  He shows his support for them, but he’s not obligated to step in to defend the crown like Viktor is, in any given situation, which means that generally, Yuri prefers to let people stay confused.  Let them think he’s a total blank slate or a wild card.  Fuck them, as if he would _ever_ turn on his family.

Still, letting Ivanovich and his stupid face think that Yuri doesn’t have a problem hearing him badmouth the representatives of the Queen can’t hurt.

Seriously, though.

Where the _hell_ is Viktor?  He was _supposed_ to rescue Yuri from this stupid, stupid conversation a _while_ ago.  He was technically supposed to meet Yuri here so he wouldn’t have had to wait, meaning that he never would’ve been stuck in this conversation to start with!

Fucking Viktor.  He’s probably being useless and flirting pathetically with Katsudon.  Somewhere.  Honestly, Yuri would take a rescue from Katsudon at this point.

“Oh, certainly,” Lady Golovkina agrees.  “I’m not sure why she let Prince Nikiforov agree to such a thing, to be completely honest with you.  It just seems like a bad plan all around!  We all _know_ Koguryŏ and Hinomoto have been at odds lately.  We have no reason to get into a war with Koguryŏ!  I still maintain that our focus needs to be elsewhere entirely.  Infrastructure, especialy in the eastern sector of the country, could use a lot of work, and a war would be exactly the opposite of what—”

“Yura!”

Oh, thank _god_.

Viktor strolls into view, sauntering his leisurely way down the stairs far too casually to be anything but quietly furious.  Yuri disguises a sigh of relief with a roll of his eyes.

“You’re _late_ ,” he informs Viktor as he approaches, draping his arm around Yuri’s shoulders.  Yuri elbows him lightly—his touch is _cold_.

“I’m terribly sorry I kept you waiting,” he says lightly.  “I hope I’m not taking you from anything too important here.”  He lifts his eyes from Yuri to both of the nobles in turn, daring them to defy him, which of course they don’t.

“Oh, no, we were just discussing some current affairs and listening to each others’ thoughts on them,” Lady Golovkina assures, smiling thinly.  “You two are going out?  I hope you have fun!”

“Yes,” Lord Ivanovich agrees.  His voice is flatter now that Viktor is here—Yuri knows full well that the two of them _really_ don’t get along.  It’s kind of funny.  “Do enjoy yourselves.”

“Thank you!” Viktor beams.  “I’m sure we will.  Come along now, little cousin.”

They’re not too far away, just a few corners turned, before Viktor spins in place and clamps both hands on Yuri’s shoulders, his eyes flashing intensely.

“What did they want from you?” he asks.  “I swear, if that slimy, smug excuse for a sad, little man tried to coerce you into anything…”

Yuri brushes him off, scoffing.  “Don’t be stupid, old man,” he says dismissively.  “As if he _could_.  They were literally just talking politics and hate-flirting with each other or something.  It was the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen, and that includes you throwing yourself at Katsudon, so like, that’s fucking saying something, but I’m fine.”

Viktor lets out a sigh of relief, straightening again.  “Be careful, Yura,” he says, and once again, Yuri rolls his eyes.  As if he _needs_ that warning.  What is he, an idiot?  “I don’t trust either of them.  They probably want to try and get you to work with them.  Watch out.”

“I _know_.  I’m not stupid, Vitya.”  He turns and starts to walk away, shaking his head. “Are we going go actually go out for coffee, or not?”

Viktor hurries to his side, falling into step easily, and smiles sunnily.  “Of course we are!” he assures.  “It’s a nice day to get away from court.”

Yuri snorts. “Aren’t all days?”

“True!” Viktor says, and laughs, and to his delight, Yuri feels like the two of them might have something approximating closeness again.

* * *

 

The ball comes quickly that night, a celebration of the end of the majority of the negotiations, though the ceremonial conclusion isn’t until tomorrow.  It’s a fun time, Viktor supposes, or at least it’s as fun as these things get.  Still, Yuuri has been sticking at his side for most of the evening, so that’s been nice.  Right now, the two of them are watching Prince Crispino—he’s seemed to be in a bit of a strange mood all evening, which is a touch concerning.

“He’s talking to Lord Petrov,” Viktor notes.  “Not good.”

At his side, Yuuri frowns ever so slightly, just for an instant.  “Petrov?  Is that—oh, I see.  I didn’t recognize the back of his head.”

“I wonder if we could get a bit closer,” Viktor muses, idly tapping a finger against his chin in thought.  Perhaps if they just casually meandered that way, as if they were slowly making their way to the refreshment tables, they could overhear something.  “I wonder what they’re talking about.”

Yuuri hesitates.  “Well… it feels like Lord Petrov wants something from him.  Prince Michele feels like he’s unhappy, but he’s felt like that all night, so I don’t know...”

“Really?”  Viktor looks at him oddly, already turning over possibilities in his mind.  “What’s upsetting him?”

Yuuri huffs indignantly.  “I don’t know!  I read emotions, not thoughts!  I don’t know of anything that could’ve happened to him today.  For all I know, he stubbed his toe on the doorframe and he’s still mad about it!”

“Okay, okay, no need to get defensive!  Here, let’s try to get closer,” Viktor says quickly, touching Yuuri’s shoulder for a second.  “Is that alright?”

“Yeah,” Yuuri sighs.  He rubs his temples and looks up at Viktor contritely. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to snap at you, it’s just... there’s a lot to keep track of in here.  It’s a little overwhelming.”

It must be, given how many people are in here.  Viktor winces in sympathy.  “No worries,” he assures.  “Tell me if you need a break from any of it!  We can always step outside for a few minutes.”

Yuuri nods, and the two of them begin making their way across the floor, around tables and between mingling nobles.  Crown Prince Crispino, up ahead, is still talking to Lord Petrov.  Either the two of them can approach and eavesdrop a touch, or they can insert themselves into the conversation and say hello.  The first option is preferable, because Viktor really wants to know what _exactly_ Petrov wants from Crispino, but he knows he and Yuuri are somewhat distinctive.

“Maybe we should split up?” Yuuri suggests suddenly, and Viktor blinks.

“Split up?”

“They might be more suspicious if both of us come over,” he explains.  “Or at least, if we’re both approaching, it might seem like we’re trying to talk to them.  If it’s just you or me, whoever is walking near them might be more easily ignored, right?”

Viktor considers that.  “I suppose,” he says, “although there’s also the possibility that they might consider the two of us as being fully focused in talking to each other when we walk by together, whereas a single person might be looking to mingle.”

Yuuri hesitates.  “That’s true,” he agrees.  “I, ah… no, it’s nothing.”  He shakes his head.  “Never mind, let’s just carry on?”

Narrowing his eyes slightly, Viktor examines his fiancé more carefully.  “Are you alright?  Do you need a minute?”

Yuuri hesitates again, which is probably the most telling answer of all, despite whatever he may say to deny it.  “I… um, maybe.  I’ll be fine, it’s just—a lot to concentrate on?  While also talking to people and all?  I can do it, it’s just—tiring, that’s all.”

Of course.  Everyone who uses magic has their limits, and overexertion can lead to serious consequences, no matter the discipline.  For Viktor with his ice, it’s fairly simple; overuse of his magic can make him give himself frostbite.  Yura could burn himself up from the inside out, if he decided to be a reckless idiot and ignored all the warning signs.  Viktor’s mother and Yura’s friend Prince Altin of Qazrazi both use blood magic, which among other things is infamous for the harsh, excruciating physical backlash it can unleash upon its users.

He actually doesn’t know what empathic overexertion looks like, though.  Empathy is one of the most subtle of the schools of magic, and one of the least extensively studied; from what he knows, manifestations of its effects tend to vary wildly between users.

“Take a few minutes to rest if you need to,” he advises.  “I don’t want you hurting yourself, Yuuri.”

Yuuri sighs.  “I won’t,” he reassures.  “I know my limits, and I haven’t reached them yet.  A few hours of this and I probably will, but for now, I’m okay.  Anyway, we should go talk to—oh _no_ …”

His groan makes Viktor quickly look back over to their target, only to find that Petrov is walking away, apparently finished with whatever he was talking to Prince Crispino about.  They took too long.

“Damn,” he mutters.  “Okay, new plan.  I’ll go see if I can get Prince Crispino to tell me what that was about, and in the meantime, you can take a minute and catch your breath.  I’ll come back in just a minute.  Sound good?”

Yuuri bites his lip, clearly unsatisfied with himself, but he nods after a moment.  Good—he must have realized that if he pushes himself too hard and stops being able to monitor anything, he’ll be even less help to anyone than if he has to hang back and take a break for a few minutes.  Which is a somewhat cold way of putting it, but hopefully at least it means he’ll have to take care of himself.

“Alright, then!  I’ll be right back,” Viktor says.  He pats Yuuri’s shoulder and turns away, pasting on a neutral smile and sauntering through the crowd toward Prince Crispino.

The most concerning possibility here is that Lord Petrov, a known ally of Lord Ivanovich, was trying to influence Prince Crispino’s position regarding certain trade regulations, including the differences in taxation before and after the alliance.  Prince Crispino is something of a wild card; Viktor isn’t completely sure how his views on Ruthenia’s inner politics fall.  He keeps to himself far too much for Viktor’s liking, that’s for sure—tonight, for example, he’s hardly danced and has mostly been standing in his little spot and talking to one of his aides or staring balefully at the dance floor.

The bottom line is that Prince Crispino’s support has to remain with House Nikiforov.  Viktor is no fool; he knows that his mother’s grasp on the throne is—well, it’s more solid than the words “tenuous at best” would imply, but honestly, not by too much.  Ruthenia under King Pyotr had been a very unstable place, and Viktor is fairly certain that if his grandfather hadn’t passed away when he did, the country could have easily dissolved into a revolution against the throne, or possibly even a civil war.  Tensions are still running fairly high, which is why Petrov’s scheming is… concerning.

So.  If Lord Petrov is trying to persuade Prince Crispino to throw his support in with the “old glory” faction, Viktor needs to know, and the sooner the better.

“Good evening, Prince Crispino,” he greets smoothly, offering a flicker of his most charming smile.  “Are you enjoying the party?”

“I suppose,” Prince Crispino says brusquely.  Viktor raises an eyebrow.

“Is everything quite alright?” he asks, letting curiosity seep into his voice.  What’s gotten him so touchy?  “You seem disturbed.”

“No offense, Prince Nikiforov,” Crispino huffs, folding his arms over his chest defensively, “but frankly, it’s none of your business.”

An alarm bell rings vaguely in Viktor’s head.  _None of his business_ could easily include deals that go behind his back.  “Is that so?  Very well, of course, if you don’t want to talk about that, I will respect your wishes!  I saw you’ve met Lord Petrov.  Lovely fellow, isn’t he?”

It’s a loaded question, of course—painfully obviously loaded, at that.  The implication is that whatever Prince Crispino’s “none of your business” is, it doesn’t have to do with Lord Petrov, which isn’t _quite_ an accusation.  It’s closer to a dare to prove him wrong.

Prince Crispino, however, doesn’t rise to the bait.  “If you’re attempting to discuss politics right now,” he says stiffly, “I’m not interested, Your Highness.  We’re at a party, and I’d rather think of more pleasant topics.”

 _Oh, right, because you certainly have been enjoying yourself_ , Viktor scoffs to himself.  The man has been nothing but a wet blanket in the corner all evening!

Perhaps some slightly more immature bait would work.  _More pleasant topics, like your sister?_ Viktor almost asks, except he’s pretty sure that so much as implying an interest in Princess Sara—even though he’s definitely not interested and she’s _defintely_ interested in someone else—carries a substantial risk of getting tackled by her brother.  Props to Mila, on that front.

“Of course,” he repeats instead, and decides to take the opposite route.  “Would you like to talk about Prince Yuuri?  He’s certainly a pleasant topic, I can assure you!”

There are two things to be noted about this suggestion—first, hopefully it’ll reinforce to Prince Crispino that Viktor is _not interested_ in his sister, which could possibly make him at least a little more trusting; and second, if Petrov was talking about the same things as Ivanovich thinks, including that Viktor is too “infatuated” with Yuuri, it might get a reaction out of Prince Crispino.

And _bingo_ —Crispino gives him a flat, unimpressed look.  “Yes,” he says.  “I’m aware.”

Ah.  So either Prince Crispino has made his own assumptions about the nature of their relationship, or he has been approached by someone with an agenda rooted in sabotaging Viktor’s credibility.  It’s possible that he’s seen that Viktor is fairly close to Yuuri, given that they do spend a lot of time together, but Viktor doubts that he would have convinced himself based solely on a few days’ worth of observation, especially given his odd paranoia.  He’ll double-check with Yuuri later, ask what Crispino seemed to be feeling during their conversation, but right now, his suspicion is that Lord Petrov or some of the others were trying to undermine Prince Crispino’s faith in the ruling ability of House Nikiforov.

“I’m glad,” he says easily.  “He’s around here somewhere—you know, he thinks rather highly of you!”  Yuuri really does not, but that doesn’t need to be mentioned.

“Really,” Prince Crispino says shortly.  Honestly, he sounds like he’s just trying to get out of the conversation at this point, a thought that is only further reinforced when he sighs and runs his hand through his hair.  “I’ll be blunt, Prince Nikiforov.  I’m not really feeling too well and I’m not quite in the mood for small talk.  My apologies for wasting your time.”

With that, he turns away, clearly signalling that he’s done here, and Viktor raises an eyebrow at his retreating back—something is clearly bugging him, if he’s being so overtly, well, _grumpy_ , at a state function.

With a sigh, Viktor turns to make his way back to Yuuri.  At least they can talk about it.

He finds Yuuri standing alone, leaning against the wall, eyes closed.  He opens them as soon as Viktor approaches—fascinating.  Can his empathic range tell him when someone changes proximity to him that clearly?—and takes him in with a glance.

“Hello again.  Are you feeling better?”

“Much,” Yuuri says, smiling slightly.  “Grounding exercises help.  So, what about Prince Crispino?  He didn’t tell you anything?”

Viktor shakes his head.

“It’s no good,” he sighs glumly, folding his arms across his chest.  “He seems to have made up his mind that I am not to be trusted with these things.  Really, he’s so suspicious.  I think he still thinks I’m interested in his _sister_ , for crying out loud!  And on top of that, he’s acting weird and definitely grumpier than usual.  I even tried playing up the rumor that I’m far too taken with you to be interested in her, but he just brushed me off and left.”

Yuuri lets out a quiet choking sound at his side, and Viktor glances at him.  “The rumor that—”  He cuts himself off and shakes his head, clearing his throat, and leaves Viktor wondering.  Surely Yuuri has heard that rumor himself by now?  Surely he knows?  Surely he knows it’s not just a rumor, given that Viktor hasn’t really tried to _hide_ it from him.  What kind of reaction was that?

He keeps watching Yuuri, even as he coughs self-consciously and looks around.

“Sorry,” he says.  “Anyway.  Um.  About Prince Crispino…”  He’s watching Prince Michele with a curious glimmer in his eyes, one that practically screams he’s thinking of _something_.  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” he muses, “but societally speaking, in the West it’s much less taboo to have an extramarital relationship when one is in a politically arranged marriage, right?”

Viktor gapes at him for just an instant.   _What?_

Then he reminds himself that he and Yuuri are not in any sort of relationship past friendship, and that who knows, maybe the reason Yuuri hasn’t seemed to entirely reciprocate his advances is that Yuuri just isn’t interested in anything else with him, and…

He can’t deny that it’s a little bit tempting to lie and to say _no, it’s frowned upon, it’s either your spouse or nothing just like it is in the East_ , but the thought of actually doing that makes him feel guilty and disgusted with himself for being so manipulative.  He has to just take what he can get.

“You’re right,” he says instead, because it’s true, such things are very common.  The general understanding is that politically arranged marriages are not always loving, and people in them only need to cooperate with each other, not so much _fall_ for each other, and it’s understandable if they already have other lovers or choose to take them.  Until he realized he’s been slowly falling for Yuuri this entire time, Viktor had thought that that was a very nice way to approach things.

“Wonderful,” Yuuri says.  “I think Prince Crispino will be more likely to talk if he’s _doubly_ assured that the person talking to him has no interest in Princess Sara, don’t you?”

“Probably, but good luck reassuring him that,” Viktor snorts, still wondering where this entire thing is headed.  A waiter, passing by, offers him champagne, but he waves him by for the moment, not that interested.  Yuuri takes a glass, with a murmured _thanks_.  “He’s easily the most paranoid person I’ve ever met—what are you doing?”

Yuuri knocks back the champagne like a shot, sets the glass down on the tray, and downs another in much the same way.  “I,” he says blandly, “need to be a little more drunk right now.”

The waiter glances at Viktor as if to ask _should I be allowing this to happen?_ as Yuuri takes a third glass.  He sips this one a little more carefully, coughing as the alcohol burns in his throat, but ultimately pours it down his throat too.  After that, he finally takes a fourth glass and waves the poor waiter onward.

“Not that I didn’t enjoy dancing with you when you were drunk the first time,” Viktor starts, but Yuuri just shakes his head.

“Not to worry, the alcohol content of champagne is a lot less than the mixed vodka thing I had that time.  Here, hold this for me,” he says, pressing the as-of-yet untouched champagne into Viktor’s hand.  “I’ll be back in ten or so minutes, I guess.”

“Wait, _what_ —”

Viktor stares at the back of Yuuri’s head as he weaves through the crowd toward the prickly Michele Crispino, who is watching Mila twirl a giggling Princess Sara around the dance floor with a slight frown.  What in the world is he trying to do by getting himself at least mildly inebriated and then talking about extramarital affairs?  The only thing Viktor has been able to think of was attempting to convince Prince Mickey over there that he and Yuuri were fully committed to each other, which apparently only worked to some degree, given Crispino and his paranoia, so…

He watches in disbelief as Yuuri places a hand on Prince Michele’s shoulder and leans in a little closer than necessary to talk to him, and since Yuuri’s back is turned, Viktor has a good view of Prince Michele’s face as whatever Yuuri just said makes his eyes widen.  He nods and says something in reply, and Viktor feels curiosity starting to consume him.  What is going _on_ over there?

The current song ends, and Mila and Princess Sara leave the floor, along with a few others.  The first notes of a slow song come on next—a rumba, Viktor realizes, considering the beat—and to his surprise, Prince Michele offers Yuuri his hand, and Yuuri takes it, and _what is happening_ , and then they’re both walking to the dance floor together, and when they take their positions (Crispino is leading, Yuuri is following) Yuuri’s face is finally visible, and he’s _smiling?_  It’s not quite the usual smile he has for Viktor, but it’s not his little polite court smile either.  It’s like…

He loses that train of thought very quickly because then Prince Crispino starts the dance and _forget the smile holy fuck do Yuuri’s hips always move like that when he dances?_

Rumba is a slow, sensual dance.  Viktor knows this.  The soft strains of guitar in the background of the music coupled with the singer’s low, crooning voice only accentuate this.  Yuuri is too good of a dancer to be stuck with Prince Michele of all people for a _rumba_.

Viktor is _not_ jealous.

Prince Michele spins Yuuri out from frame, so that their only connection is their joined hands, and Viktor inconspicuously sidles a little closer to the dance floor for a better view.  Yuuri swishes his hips back and forth to the beat, his free hand slowly sliding up his body as he keeps his gaze focused directly on Prince Michele.  Viktor bites his lip as Yuuri sashays back toward frame, but instead of closing by placing his hand back on Prince Michele’s shoulder, he drags a finger down Prince Michele’s chest (tantalizingly slow, keeping all his other movements in time with the music) and twirls away again.

Not jealous, not jealous, not jealous…

He clears his throat and finds that it’s almost impossible to look away.  He’s not the only one mesmerized, though—people all around are staring, unable to tear their gazes away from the incredible, beautiful spectacle that is Prince Katsuki Yuuri, dancing with the most fluid movements any of them have ever seen.

“Ooh, jealous of Prince Michele, are we, loverboy?” Mila greets, melting out of the crowd to nudge Viktor’s side.

“Mila,” Viktor says, and he is _not_ a little bit breathless as Prince Michele slowly dips Yuuri backwards over his arm, and Yuuri’s leg first caresses the back of Michele’s calf before rising to point at the ceiling, because Yuuri does ballet and Yuuri is _just that flexible_ , and—

“Yes?” Mila hums.  She’s laughing at him, he can tell, but in this moment, he doesn’t care, because.  Because!

“Mila, I’m _gay_ ,” he breathes.  Yuuri is laughing when Michele returns him to his feet, one hand sliding up to cradle his partner’s cheek for a moment before his arm flares out from his side again as Michele, his face bright red, leads him into a simple underarm turn.  Viktor bites his lip again.   _He_ wouldn’t be this flustered, if it was him.  No, he’d be dancing with Yuuri the same way, enjoying this to its fullest.

“I don’t think anyone has ever tried to charm Mickey like this before,” Princess Sara comments from Mila’s other side.  She looks like she’s holding back laughter.  “He looks so _embarrassed!_  Is anyone getting this on video?  I’m going to need it for sibling blackmail if he decides to be stupid again.”

“Only every single one of those news cameras that are in here,” Mila grins, her arm wrapped around Princess Sara’s waist.  “Oh, boy.  He looks like a _tomato_ , poor man!”

Princess Sara lets out a merry, tinkling laugh.  “I hope he’s prepared for me to never let him live this down, ever.”

“I’m really, _really_ gay,” Viktor moans, hiding his face in his hands.  That only lasts for a second, though, because he _has_ to keep watching, as they step into a hesitation and Yuuri continues doing those things with his hips and Michele keeps blushing.  Yuuri says something, and Michele replies, and oh, Viktor realizes—they’ve been talking to each other this entire time.  What are they _saying?_

“Whoa there,” Mila teases unrepentantly.  “I think we already knew that, Viktor.  You need to hit up the refreshment table?  I think you look a little _thirsty_.”

“ _Mila_ ,” Princess Sara groans.  Mila just winks, and Princess Sara laughs.  “Okay, but he’s _good_ ,” she adds, still watching, though she hooks her other arm around Mila’s waist too as she talks.  “Um.  Really good?”

“I have a drink,” Viktor says, holding up Yuuri’s champagne.  He takes a careful sip or two, mostly to keep himself from once again informing his companions that he is, in fact, gay, and keeps watching.  The dance floor is unexpectedly clear for halfway through a song, and he only now notices that it’s because several couples have actually stopped just to watch Yuuri and Prince Michele.

By the time the song ends, Viktor has drained the glass, handing it off to a passing server.  There’s a heartbeat of silence, and then the room erupts in applause.  Prince Michele and Yuuri both blush, laughing on the dance floor, and then Prince Michele says something and heads for the door to the balcony, leaving Yuuri alone.  Yuuri leaves the floor, ducking his head, and looks around until he spots Viktor, standing there with Mila and Princess Sara, and hurries to him.

“Oh!” Sara gasps as the next song starts, a fast one this time.  “Mila!  It’s a samba, I love sambas!  Come on, come on!”  She starts tugging Mila toward the floor, giggling, and Mila laughs as she hurries to follow.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!  Okay!  Bye, Viktor!”

“Have fun,” Viktor tells them, but his eyes are fixed on his fiancé, who approaches him with a flushed countenance and hurried steps.

“Yuuri,” Viktor says by way of greeting.  Yuuri bypasses all greetings entirely and plants his face in Viktor’s shoulder.

“I am never showing my face in public again,” he groans.  Viktor has to fight down the silly surge of glee that rears its head that Yuuri is back with _him_ , and isn’t putting up any fronts with him either, like he did with Prince Crispino.  He wraps his arms around his fiancé and pats his back comfortingly, hiding the grin that he can’t help by pressing his lips to Yuuri’s hair.  “Where’s my champagne?  I want to forget that ever happened.”

“Oh, I drank it,” Viktor says sheepishly.  “My bad.  I’ll get you some more.  But Yuuri.   _Yuuri_.”

“He wasn’t impressed by Petrov’s talk.  Thought it was rather shady and underhanded of him to try and influence him like that, said something about it being dishonorable,” Yuuri says, his voice still muffled by Viktor’s shoulder, which he has not lifted his face from.  “Please tell me you weren’t watching… _that_.”

“Oh, I was,” Viktor assures him.  “You _have_ to dance with me now, I hope you know.”

“I have to?” Yuuri asks dismally.  He seems quite comfortable with his head right where it is, considering that he loosely wraps his arms around Viktor’s waist and stays like that.  Viktor laughs, swaying slightly in time to the music, and Yuuri sways with him.

“Yes, you have to,” he says.  “That way people will just assume you dance like that in general if the mood hits you, and nobody will think you were just trying to get into Michele’s pants.”

Yuuri freezes and then groans again.  “Oh my _god_ , I should never have done that…”

“It worked, though!” Viktor points out gleefully.  “And I thought you looked _quite_ nice while you were at it.  What did he think?”

“He talks more when he’s flustered,” Yuuri mumbles.  He still sounds so terribly embarrassed about the entire thing, and Viktor pats his back some more, suppressing laughter.

“That was some pretty heavy flirting,” he says, hoping his voice stays just as light as he means it to.  Hopefully Yuuri is still too flustered himself to pay attention to the fact that Viktor is not and was not at all jealous during any of that.  “Does he think you’re interested now?”

Yuuri seems to get even more mortified, if the way he presses closer against Viktor’s shoulder is anything to judge by.  “He—oh, _god—_ he said he was flattered by my attention but that he couldn’t possibly entertain a relationship with an engaged man… why did I do that?  Viktor, why did I _do_ that?”

“Well,” Viktor says, stubbornly ignoring his little personal flash of glee and relief, “I’m not entirely sure, but it worked.  What a relief!  I’m glad Petrov didn’t get to him.  What’s been eating at him all night, then?”

Yuuri huffs out a little laugh and finally, _finally_ raises his head.  He doesn’t step away, though, which is nice, because they keep swaying to the beat in each other’s arms, half-time because samba is fast and they’re just taking it slow.  “He’s been prickly because you know, Mila and Princess Sara are officially courting as of this morning, and apparently Princess Sara and he had a bit of an argument over that.”

Of all the…

“I never expected Mila’s love life to be the culprit, of all things,” Viktor says, and then laughs.  He tugs Yuuri closer again.  “ _Yuuuuri_ , let’s go dance after this song.  You haven’t danced with me much tonight, and that’s just criminal!”

Yuuri lets his head fall onto Viktor’s shoulder again, blushing, though it might just be the alcohol still in his system.  “Alright,” he says, “but I’m not doing the empathy thing again, it’ll just be dancing.  I’m _tired_.”

Viktor blinks.  “The empathy thing?”

Yuuri stills in his arms.  “You… didn’t notice?”

Viktor frowns now, looking down at him with confusion.  “You used your empathy on me?  When?”

Yuuri shakes his head.  “I used a general spell,” he says.  “On the entire ballroom.  While I was dancing.  You know, to make it look like such a big deal and especially to get Prince Crispino off balance because of all the attention.  I—I thought you would realize that’s what it was, because you know I… have magic?”

_Oh._

“No _wonder_ nobody could look away,” Viktor muses, leaving out the part where he himself couldn’t look away either and just assumed it was because Yuuri was too damn attractive, a fact that he didn’t need to bother questioning.  “Well!  I guess we have to go dance anyway just to see how much of that was you and how much of that was the spell!  For science, Yuuri.”

“Technically, it was all me,” Yuuri mumbles, but he smiles and lets Viktor lead him to the dance floor as the samba draws to a close.

* * *

 

[2:45] Yuuri:  
so hey phichit you know that thing you said the other day?  
about getting drunk and using the powers of magic and/or dance to my advantage?

[2:46] homobipboa:  
holy fuck did you actually  
this is the best thing to wake up to i don’t even care that it’s so early anymore ahahahahahaha

[2:47] Yuuri:  
i  
i did  
but  
the man i “seduced” was not viktor?

[2:47] homobipboa:  
WJAT  
YUURI?????????????????????  
ohmygod i need to find footage of that ball ASAP  
EXPLAIN URSELF BOY

[2:48] Yuuri:  
PRINCE CRISPINO WASN’T TALKING AND WE NEEDED TO KNOW SOMETHING  
I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT ELSE TO DO

[2:48] homobipboa:  
*yuuri katsuki voice* oh no!!!!! idk what to do i guess i better sEDUCE THE HELL OUT OF THIS MAN  
hooooly shit yuuri im watching this footage now, you really pulled out all the stops

[2:49] Yuuri:  
SHUT UP!!!!!

[2:50] homobipboa:  
SDGHKDJL ok this is GOLD have you seen any of it

[2:50] Yuuri:  
do you THINK i watched it?????

[2:50] homobipboa:  
OK OK NO BUT YOU HAVE TO  
the LOOK on viktors face im LAUGHING one of the cameramen got a close-up  
YUURI HES BLUSHING

[2:51] Yuuri:  
no way omg no  
why would he be blushing??????  
i mean i guess i did lay the spell on pretty thick

[2:51] homobipboa:  
i bet he likes youuuu  
you said yourself that hes always clingy af  
AND that he always seems happier when youre with him than when you observe him w others  
yuuri and viktor sitting in a tree

[2:52] Yuuri:  
sTOp

[2:52] homobipboa:  
K I S S I N G

[2:52] Yuuri:  
ssttttoooooopppppp im dyinnggg

[2:53] homobipboa:  
i bet he likes u ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

[2:53] Yuuri:  
ok but like in that case i made him watch me flirt with another guy???

[2:54] homobipboa:  
oml and according to this video, right after that you ran straight into his arms??? YUURI  
*gay, not straight

[2:54] Yuuri:  
he was supposed to have my champagne that’s why i went to him!!!!!!!!!!!

[2:55] homobipboa:  
boi ur not foolin me  
i cant believe this how long did you just stand there and hug him  
yuuri this is so transparent im YELLING

[2:55] Yuuri:  
look  
he just  
hes a really good hugger okay

[2:56] homobipboa:  
i hope u know im actually cackling over here

[2:56] Yuuri:  
i figured you would be………………………

[2:56] homobipboa:  
HOW LONG WAS THIS HUG

[2:57] Yuuri:  
…a very nice amount of time for a hug?

[2:57] homobipboa:  
T R A N S P A R E N T  
he TOTALLY likes you yuuri. doesn’t it feel like it????

[2:58] Yuuri:  
i mean… i can definitely feel that he likes me?  
not as in like LIKE like, but just. regular like  
but you know its really hard to tell that sort of thing…  
if i barely know when IM feeling romantic feelings for someone how the heck can i tell when i feel someone ELSE’S romantic feelings, yknow???

[2:58] homobipboa:  
yea yea that makes sense!  
i guess its good tho, like at least you know he does care abt you for real and stuff, romo or not

[2:59] Yuuri:  
yeah! it makes me feel better to know that, haha

[2:59] homobipboa:  
“better”, you say? as in like, perhaps, more confident?  
confident enough to pull those moves on HIM this time??

[2:59] Yuuri:  
i did dance with him after that? did you stop watching?

[3:00] homobipboa:  
oh. yeah i did, im actually about to have to go lol  
theres some sunrise-related spellwork to do ugh  
ok ok ill actually go do that considering its 3 for you and you should sleep!

[3:00] Yuuri:  
haha okay, yeah i am about to fall asleep

 

[3:01] homobipboa:  
ok!! in that case i will interrogate you further about this dancing tomorrow. good night yuuri! ♥

[3:01] Yuuri:  
good night phichit, have fun spellcasting ♥

* * *

All in all, as the week draws to a close, Mila can confidently say that the negotiations were successful.  As the junior representative of House Babicheva and the standing representative in court, due to her parents’ absence as they run the estate, she found herself stuck in stuffy meeting rooms most of the time, but as a plus, at least Sara was in there too, so that’s been nice.  They had to focus on business, but that didn’t stop them from smiling at each other from time to time.  The ceremony that officially closed negotiations was this morning, so it’s all over now, really.

Right now, she’s in the sitting room of Yura’s apartments, with all of the usual gang and then some gathered to have a casual, impromptu celebratory tea party.  Sara is at her side, comfortably leaning against her shoulder, while Yura is lying across the couch with his feet tossed in Yuuri’s lap.  Viktor is perched on the armrest next to Yuuri, and Anya is in the armchair near Mila’s other side.  Prince Michele and Georgi are both standing, eyeing each other as if to gauge who’s going to go for the single remaining empty armchair first, while Makkachin lies at Viktor’s feet.

“We could get the board games out again,” Georgi suggests after a moment of silence.

Yura’s head snaps up.  “If you want to play Monopoly again, I will actually kill you where you stand right now, Popovich.”

“Now, now, Yura,” Viktor says, amused.  “Don’t you think that would be rude?”

“ _Monopoly_ is rude,” Yura glares balefully.  Yuuri pats his knee soothingly, sipping his tea.  Mila stifles a snort—how carefully timed that tea-sipping is, just so he doesn’t have to actually say anything.

“We could always play Jenga!” Sara suggests brightly.  “I love Jenga!”

Anya snickers.  “Oh?  Are you good with your fingers, Sara?  I’m sure Mila can attest—”

Mila guffaws, Prince Michele chokes, Sara squeaks, and Yura hurls a pillow across the room to hit Anya in the face with surprising accuracy and maybe a little more force than was strictly necessary.

“ _There are minors present, you hag!_ ” he screeches.  Yuuri, wide-eyed, pats his leg again, wordlessly passing his teacup to Viktor when Yura flails his way into sitting up.  “Shut your filthy mouth!”

“Prince Yuri, please,” Georgi attempts to placate him, and Mila sighs to herself while Anya buries her face in her hands at his defense.  “That’s a little far—”

“Shut it, Georgi,” Yura huffs, crossing his arms and glaring around the room.  “I hate all of you.  Disgusting.”

“What would you like to do, Yuri?” Yuuri asks, ever the peacemaker.  “I mean, we _are_ in your rooms, so it’s only fair that you should get a say in what we’re doing.  If anything.”

“ _Thank_ you, Katsudon,” Yura grumbles.  “The only one of you lot who isn’t a _complete_ moron at all times.  And by you lot I mean the Ruthenians, because I can’t call you two morons without Aunt Vasilisa yelling at me.”  He gestures vaguely at Sara and Prince Michele, and a chuckle goes around the room.  Tensions are pretty low, now that formal negotiations are over, and everyone here is fairly used to Yura’s antics.  Plus, they’re in private and not at court, which goes a long way towards letting them all interact like normal people for once.

It’s nice.

“Katsudon?” Prince Michele inquires, tilting his head to one side curiously.  Mila has to stifle a giggle at what’s going to come next.

“Yes!” Viktor beams.  “It’s his nickname for Yuuri here!  Is that not the most adorable—”

“Call me cute one more time and I swear, I will incinerate your _dog_ —”

Viktor gasps.  “ _Yura!_ How could you!  I wasn’t even calling you cute, I was calling you adorable!  Leave Makkachin out of this, he’s innocent, you little monster—”

“So am I ‘adorable’ or am I a monster?”  Yura crosses his arms and flops back against the armrest, laying his legs across Yuuri’s lap again, and does that _adorable_ little pouty glare up at Viktor.  “Make up your goddamn mind!  And don’t call me _little_ , I have had it up to _here_ with your goddamn short jokes!”

“Only up to there, hmm?  Is that the highest you can reach?”

Yuuri quietly takes his teacup back from Viktor, sighs, and leans over to wrap his other arm around Makkachin protectively, casting a long-suffering look at Mila across the coffee table as the two of them keep going back and forth over his head.  Mila offers him a sympathetic smile and mouths _be strong_.

“Are they always like this?” Sara whispers.

“Look at Yuuri,” Mila answers, pecking her cheek fondly.  “Tell me that that isn’t the face of a broken man.”

Anya snorts.

The bickering ends when Makkachin wriggles away from Yuuri, hops onto the couch, and settles down with his head on Yura’s chest.  Yura freezes.

“Make him move,” he says, staring down with wide eyes.

“Why?” Viktor asks, blinking.  “Is something wrong?  You know he likes you.”

“I _know_ ,” Yura hisses.  “I can’t have him looking at me with those stupid big _puppy eyes_ when I was just talking about—I feel too guilty to even say it out loud now, make him get off me!”

Viktor bursts out laughing as Makkachin snuffles and nudges Yura’s chin with his nose, and Yura lets out a little whine.  Prince Michele laughs softly.  Sara hides a giggle behind her hand, and Mila gives her a quick squeeze because she’s adorable and it really sucks that she has to leave tomorrow.

“Viktor!  Get him _off_ me!” Yura hisses.  “Katsudon!  Do something!”

“Wait,” Mila says, before Yuuri can cave to Yura’s demands, like he so clearly is about to. “Just a second.”

“ _No!_ ” Yura exclaims.  “Babacheva, don’t you _dare_ —”

Mila pulls her phone out and snaps a picture of the three of them, a family photo on the couch!  Viktor, grinning unrepentantly.  Yuuri, laughing helplessly into his tea.  Makkachin, tail wagging as he nudges Yura’s chin again.  And Yura himself, looking somewhere between outraged and helpless.  Yura’s grandfather will like this photo, she thinks.  Supposedly, from what Yuuri has told her, the Queen would too—the Queen apparently likes having photos—but Mila is a little bit too intimidated to send it to her.

“I hate you,” Yura groans.  “Someone please get this dog off me.”

“Oh, wow, he said please,” Viktor hums, entirely too amused by this situation.  Yuuri lightly smacks his arm, then turns to Makkachin.

“Makka!  Makka, come here,” he croons, and then adds a series of Hinomotan endearments that Mila barely catches.  She does recognize that he’s using the dialect from his hometown, though, instead of standard speech.  Maybe she should learn it?

Makkachin picks his head up from Yura’s chest, hesitates, and slowly ambles around to make himself at home in Yuuri’s lap, sitting on Yura’s legs in the process while Yuuri lets out a quiet _oof_ as he focuses on saving his tea.

“Aww, Yuuri, but it was so cute when Yura and Makkachin were cuddling!” Viktor protests.  Then he pauses.  “Although… Makkachin cuddling with _you_ is plenty cute, too.”

Yuuri goes a little bit pink in the face and laughs.  “He didn’t want to cuddle with Makkachin, though.”

“It was still cute!” Sara says, grinning, and Yura graces her with a dirty look.  She continues to smile, unrepentant, and Mila winks at him when he glares.

“There are too many people flirting in this room and I am going to kick all of you out,” Yura huffs.  “Why are you even _in here_.”

“Because you’re the one who has all the board games,” Georgi reminds him.  “By the way, did anyone ever actually veto Jenga, or are we doing that?”

“I have no idea, actually,” Yuuri says, looking around.  “We can play Jenga, right?”

“Aren’t there a lot of us for Jenga?” Anya asks, also looking around.  “Everyone might not even get a turn before it falls!”

Yura scoffs.  “Well, if you’re so worried about that, just make sure you’re not the one who knocks down the tower and it’ll be fine!  Or are you just afraid you’re not gonna be able to do it?”

Anya raises an eyebrow.  “Are you trying to pick a fight?” she asks.  “Because, no offense, Your Highness,” she says, glancing at Viktor, “but I like to think I’m a little harder to needle than your cousin.  Also, I don’t enjoy arguing with you as much as he seems to.”

Yura rolls his eyes.  “Whatever,” he says.  “Let’s play Jenga.  I’m gonna beat all of you.”

“Whatever you say, Yura,” Mila teases.  “Who’s getting the box?”

They all look at each other.  It’s rather comical, and Mila bursts out laughing, full of that warm sense that they all fit here together, like a few oddly-shaped pieces of a puzzle all finally coming together to make something whole.  Not for the first time, she wishes the Víteliens didn’t have to leave tomorrow.

“I don’t know where it is,” Prince Michele points out, which is a fair reason why they can’t make him (or Sara) do it.

“I don’t feel like getting up,” Viktor contributes, which is… a less fair reason, but if he doesn’t want to get up, he won’t get up. 

“I _can’t_ get up,” Yuuri says, patting Makkachin to prove his point.  “It would just be immoral.”

“I’m not the one who wants to play a game so bad,” Yura says, when the room’s cumulative gaze slides to him.

“Don’t look at me,” Mila says, pulling Sara close against her side.  “I’m too gay.”

Georgi heaves a long-suffering sigh and walks toward one of the cabinets by the bookshelves.  “You are all useless,” he says, “and sometimes I really wonder why I put up with this.”

“You know you love us, Georgi!” Mila teases.  “Thank you for getting the game!”

(Makkachin ends up knocking the tower over before any of them do.  Yura declares that since he’s Viktor’s dog, by extension it’s Viktor’s loss, and is so satisfied with himself for this brilliant logical conclusion that he’s not even mad that he didn’t get a turn himself before Makkachin ended the game.)

* * *

It looks like this is going to be another sleepless night.

Viktor stifles a frustrated groan, rolling over in bed again as carefully as he can, not wanting to disturb Makkachin.  These nights aren’t common, thankfully, but every single time they happen, they’re terrible.  He probably won’t get to sleep until just before dawn, if even then.  He supposes it’s lucky that he managed to avoid having one of these nights until the Víteliens left two weeks ago; even the thought of running on less than three hours of sleep while conducting international business sounds _terrible_.

He’s wide awake.  It’s three in the morning and he feels like it’s noon, and it’s painfully still in his room.  His phone screen is too bright even on the lowest setting, but doing nothing just leads to staring at the ceiling and letting his thoughts swirl and fester, and that… never ends well.

Three in the morning, he thinks to himself, might just be the loneliest part of a day.

He scrolls through his private account’s Instagram feed, absentmindedly liking all the posts with cute dogs in them, and blows out a quiet sigh.  There’s an ache in his chest, the kind of slow melancholy that rises over time like a slowly gathering flood, until he drowns without ever having realized he was sinking. 

This happens sometimes.

He doesn’t have to like it, but he’s used to it.  Right?

Tomorrow, he’ll just be drained and tired and dead on his feet, but he’ll put the mask back on as normal and pretend that his own emotional exhaustion isn’t slowly overwhelming him, seeping in like water through all the cracks, damaging the very foundations of everything he stands upon.  It’ll be fine.  He’s been pretending nothing is wrong for years now.

…It’ll be fine, he’s been pretending for years now, this happens sometimes, and he’s used to it, so _why_ exactly is he swinging his feet out of bed, stuffing his phone in his pocket, and walking to the door?

He takes a brief moment to make sure Makkachin is still snoozing away, content in his doggy dreams, and then slips outside, locking his rooms behind him.  He’ll be back soon anyway, no doubt—a quick walk to clear his head is probably a good idea.  And if that doesn’t end up working out, he can go outside and run or practice his magic against the summer’s warmth until he’s too exhausted to stay awake, and no matter what, all he has to do is make sure he comes back by morning to get Makkachin.

Yes, this sounds like a foolproof plan to ignore the loneliness in the pit of his stomach, even though the sad, pathetic ache is the actual reason he can’t sleep.  He’s just… sad.  For no real reason, except that maybe in recent years he’s come to realize that being a crown prince seems to mean being alone, and that he doesn’t like it, not at all.  That is—he loves helping his country, he loves being _good_ at it, but…

The fact that he never had a choice in the matter, the fact that he still has no choice, effectively, and the fact that he seems to have to do it all alone when so many other people have friends and lovers and more people to rely on… those facts feel unfair.  He doesn’t blame his mother—of course he doesn’t, not when she’s doing her best too!—but he’s still just so bone-achingly _tired_ of living with the weight of it all. 

Can it really be called living, if it’s so mindless, day to day repetitions of the same routines until he feels like some kind of royal puppet, a mimicry of himself?

Most days, he’s okay with it.  He can outrun his thoughts and hide from his fears, and he’s fine with life as he knows it.  It’s only on the days—more often, the _nights_ —when it they all catch up to him that he realizes that maybe, just maybe, something is wrong.

And so it is that his feet, either brilliant or treacherous in their ability to walk places without his mind telling them to, bring him to Yuuri’s door, and his hand, on autopilot more than anything else, rises and raps against the wood, three times.

What is he _doing?_

He more than half-expects the knock to go ignored, assumes Yuuri probably is asleep by now, as most sane people are at quarter past three in the morning.  Honestly, he ought to have stayed in his rooms; he’s dealt with sleepless nights like this before.  He should turn and go, really—there’s nothing wrong with sitting alone and staring at the ceiling and watching Makkachin sleep while loneliness gnaws at him, slowly devouring him from the inside out until there’s nothing left but a high-functioning husk of who he’s supposed to be.

But then the door opens.

Yuuri stands there, and though he’s in his sleepwear (frankly, the cutest set of blue, poodle-covered pajamas that Viktor has ever seen), he doesn’t look like he just got out of bed—he seems far too alert for that, even if he isn’t wearing his glasses.  It’s a stark contrast, seeing him like this.  He looks more human and more vulnerable than any of them do during the daytime, all covered in rich clothing and seemingly impenetrable masks of poise and decorum.  Then again, Viktor supposes, he looks much the same—human, vulnerable, and woefully far from the elegant standard of perfection that everyone seems to hold him to.  Most days, he reaches those expectations.  Most nights, he doesn’t think about it.  But… tonight isn’t most nights.

“Hi,” he greets lamely.

“Viktor?” Yuuri asks, surprised.  “What are you doing up right now?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Viktor says, but he can’t quite manage to project his usual levity into the words, and honestly, it doesn’t matter, because he knows Yuuri would’ve been able to see right past it anyway.  “…May I come in?”

Yuuri wordlessly stands back, allowing Viktor into his sitting room, and Viktor slumps onto the couch with a dreary sigh.

“Are… you okay?” Yuuri asks hesitantly, closing and locking the door once again.  He takes a careful perch at the other end of the couch, painfully close and yet not in reach, and regards Viktor as one might a wounded animal, not sure whether to approach or give space.

Viktor blows out a breath.  “I suppose I just couldn’t sleep,” he says after a moment.  “Why are you awake?  Is it—should I be asking about the katsudon index?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that!” Yuuri says quickly, offering a smile warm enough to thaw even the icy numbness residing in the pit of Viktor’s stomach.  “I was just talking to my parents.  It’s fine, though—you had pretty good timing, they were about to have to leave when you knocked, anyway.”

“I see,” Viktor says, and silence falls, thick and awkward like it’s just _begging_ to be punctured.  He looks at Yuuri, traces the curve of his jaw and nose up to the wavy fall of rumpled hair near his eyes, at his demure, uncertain posture, and aches to reach over and grab his hand.  To curl up into something small and to be reassured, to be comforted, to be told _it’s okay, you’re going to be okay_.

He hangs back, though. 

“…Why couldn’t you sleep?” Yuuri asks, breaking the silence.  “Is something wrong?”

Viktor shrugs moodily.  “Yes, and no.”

Yuuri looks at him carefully.  Then, to his surprise, he shifts, pulling his feet up onto the couch and turning so that his back is to the armrest, and holds out his arms.

“Come here?” he asks quietly, and Viktor wordlessly crawls closer, until his nose bumps into Yuuri’s shoulder and Yuuri folds his arms around him, drawing him into a loose, gentle hug.  Yuuri is quiet, just holding him, until the tension starts to drain out of his shoulders and he relaxes, lying there against his chest.  Finally, Yuuri speaks up again.  “You, um… you feel lonely, right now,” he says, still quiet and soft.  “And sad.”

“Funny,” Viktor mutters, closing his eyes.  He can feel Yuuri’s heartbeat, lying together like this, and it’s so much better than lying alone in his room, maybe crying silently into his pillow and desperately hoping he doesn’t wake Makkachin. “Because I _am_ lonely right now.  And sad.”

Yuuri curls an arm around his head, fingers hesitantly petting his hair.  “Why?”

Viktor shrugs again.  Then he sighs.  “Do I need a particular reason?”

“No,” Yuuri replies immediately, firm and sure.  “No, you don’t.  I was just wondering.  Do you want to talk about what’s on your mind?”

Viktor doesn’t answer that for a long moment, considering Yuuri instead.  Yuuri, Yuuri… normally, he thinks he would be regaling his thoughts with _my dear_ and _beautiful, talented, and brilliant_ , but… right now, he’s too tired.  Emotionally tired, that is.  He’s spent so much time alone that it’s really felt—it’s felt so _different_ , having Yuuri here.  Having a partner.  But sometimes even the ever-confident Viktor Nikiforov stumbles, doubts himself, and, well…

This is one of those times.

Most days, he’s happy enough with his life.  Sure, it’s felt like he’s just going through the motions every day, over and over, for years, but he never really had anything to complain about.  The feeling of emptiness just became natural.  It was only normal that he trusted nobody save his mother and that he expected people to betray him, to hate him, and to scheme as to how to outsmart him, at all times.

But god, he’s tired.

His mother didn’t have the perfect storybook marriage.  She and her wife are estranged—they have for most of Viktor’s life; he didn’t grow up with two parents.  His mother’s wife, for lack of a better name for her, lives far out in the countryside and prefers to avoid court, though they’re officially still married.  She has no claim to the throne, coming from a noble house, and has mostly fallen out of the picture.

But all his life… Viktor has just _craved_ companionship.  He knows his mother knows that, too—he’s not blind, he’s not stupid, he knows that her gifting him Makkachin for his eighteenth birthday was her attempt at giving him the closest thing to that she could offer.  And he loves Makkachin dearly, of course he does!  But Makkachin isn’t…

Yuuri is the first person other than his mother that Viktor has allowed himself to trust fully in a long, long time.

He trusts Yura, of course, but one can’t really use their little sixteen-year-old cousin as a confidant.  Yura is someone he trusts and will care for and look after, but Yura can’t provide the kind of mutual companionship that Viktor wants.  Mila and Georgi, well—they’re closer to him in age, particularly Georgi, but he’s never been able to interact with them without remembering interhouse politics and loyalties.  It’s always felt like being crown prince has isolated him from the rest of the court, has put him on a pedestal from which he cannot ever fall.

The pedestal is so lonely.

“Do you ever wish you weren’t born into a royal house?” 

The words drop into the silence with the weight of stone.  Viktor’s breath catches in his throat as Yuuri’s hand stills in his hair.

“How do you mean?” Yuuri asks.

Viktor sighs. “I mean—if you didn’t have to worry about your duty to your country all the time.  If you could just be yourself and do what you love with no restraint.  If you could let yourself trust people, because they wouldn’t have a reason to want to stab you in the back the moment you give them the chance.  Something like that.”

Yuuri hums thoughtfully, his chest rising and falling as he breathes.  “I… yes.  I’ve thought about that.  I—I would never want to have a different family, but… sometimes I wish someone else could rule.  In that way, I’m glad I wasn’t firstborn, actually.  It’s lonely enough being the second prince.”

“Being heir is…”  Viktor sighs.  “I guess I don’t have to tell you how having so many expectations on you feels.  Things you have to live up to, things you have to be, always, no matter what.  I… I haven’t even told my mother this, Yuuri, but you know, sometimes I think that somewhere along the way to becoming the perfect prince, I lost myself.  Who I actually am.  I just—I don’t know.  Is there _anything_ that makes me actually _me_?”  He laughs softly, humorlessly.  “The day we met, when you took me into the garden maze.  You remember that, right?”

“Of course,” Yuuri murmurs.

“You told me—you sat there and you told me you wanted me to be myself, just like that,” Viktor laughs again, breathy and mirthless.  “It made me happy, in the moment, it really did.  But later that night, I sat back and thought about it and I realized I wasn’t sure if I even knew who I _was_.  If I’m not molding myself into someone else’s idea of what they want from me, well… what am I?”

“You’re Viktor,” Yuuri says, just like that, as if it’s that simple.  It almost makes him laugh.

“What does that _mean?_ ” he presses, shaking his head.

Yuuri gently scrunches his fingers through Viktor’s hair.  “Let me finish,” he says, “and hopefully, I can tell you.  Or at least, I can tell you what I think.  I don’t know if it’ll be helpful.”

“Okay,” Viktor acknowledges, when it becomes clear Yuuri is waiting for him to say something.

Yuuri lets out a breath.  “First of all, I’m honored you’re trusting me with this,” he says.  “Thank you.  I… I hope I can do _something_ to help.  Anyway, though… to me, you’re not just a list of traits in a box or something.  You’re not just a prince or just this or just that.  You’re… so much more than any of that.  Ugh, I just know I’m doing a terrible job of explaining this!  Let me start over.

“Whether you’re a prince or not, engaged or not, _whatever_ , there are still things that make you _you_ , Viktor.  You love dogs, you’re persistent, and you’re very caring, though you have to hide it deep down.  You, I think, are still a dreamer at heart, and you want to be happy, and you want the people you care about to be happy. 

“You’re very loving, too, I think!  I mean—you’re always looking out for me and trying to take care of me, and you always want to hold my hands when we walk together, and I think that’s very sweet of you.  And when I see you, you always feel so _warm_.  I guess that’s the worst word I really could use, considering that you’re an ice mage and everything, but…”  Yuuri shrugs.  “That’s the best way to describe what I feel from you, when we’re together.  It’s warm and comforting.  Emotions are confusing and messy, and it’s kind of hard to pin a label on them, but… I don’t know.  You make me feel safe, and you make me feel like I make you feel safe, too.”

Warmth, comfort, and safety.  So that’s what Yuuri thinks of the way Viktor has slowly but surely been falling in love with him ever since they met.

That’s kind of funny, actually.  Because warmth, comfort, and safety are the three major things Viktor thinks he’s feeling, after hearing all that.  Perhaps it’s no wonder Yuuri is just taking these emotions as they come.  Feeling like this is heady enough that Viktor doesn’t want to think about it too hard, in case it makes him stop feeling quite as safe, comforted, and warm—no wonder Yuuri hasn’t thought hard enough about it to realize that it is, in fact, something close to love.

“Thank you,” he says after a moment, and if his voice is a little rough, neither of them comment on it.

“Of course, Viktor,” Yuuri answers. and although from here, Viktor can’t see his face, he can hear the gentle smile in his voice as his fingers start to tentatively stroke through Viktor’s hair again.

He shakes his head slightly, cheek against the warmth radiating through Yuuri’s shirt.  “Call me Vitya.”

Yuuri’s hand stills again, and his heart beats a bit harder in his chest.  Viktor doesn’t move, not yet, and when Yuuri hesitantly tries, “Vitya?”, it feels like being wrapped in a soft, warm blanket.

“Yes,” he answers, unable to keep the small smile from his face.  “You said it right.”

“Vitya,” Yuuri repeats, smiling again.  He rests his cheek against Viktor’s hair and lets out a soft, contented sigh, and for a few minutes, the two of them lie there in silence, punctuated only by heartbeats and breaths.  Viktor could fall asleep here, head pillowed on Yuuri’s shoulder like this.  He’s in no rush to go anywhere and he feels, in Yuuri’s words, warm, comfortable, and safe.

He lets his thoughts wander again.  Maybe he even drifts into a light doze, he’s not that sure.  At some point, Yuuri shifts, though, and it draws him back to the present.

“Sorry,” Yuuri mumbles.  “My shoulder was getting stiff.”

Viktor hums and shifts, tucking his head into the crook of Yuuri’s neck on the other side, and Yuuri lets out a relieved little sigh.  “Better?”

“Much,” Yuuri says.  “Do you, um… do you want to stay here tonight?  Or are you going back?  I mean—I’m not trying to kick you out or anything, I was just wondering, because it’s pretty late and all and you just dozed off and if you’re tired—”

“Yuuri,” Viktor interrupts, before the panicked, tired rambling can go too far.  “Yuuri.  I, ah… I would love to stay here, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“I don’t mind!” Yuuri says quickly.  “Um… should we move to the bed, though?  Or—I can take the couch, if you—”

Wryly, Viktor glances up at him and notes the red cheeks.  Interesting.  He’ll have to think about why the thought of sharing a bed makes Yuuri blush later, when he’s not feeling so raw and vulnerable.  “Yuuri,” he says drily, “the reason I wanted to stay was to continue doing exactly what we are doing now, except in a bed, ideally, though if you’d _prefer_ to sleep on the couch, I suppose I’d stay here, despite how awful it would be for my back.”

Yuuri blinks, once, twice, and blushes a little harder.  “Okay,” he manages, and then chuckles self-consciously.  “Sorry.  I just… I didn’t want to assume!  We can move to the bed, though, that’s absolutely fine.  Yes.  Should we do that?  Now, I mean?”

“Now seems like as good a time as any, I think,” Viktor agrees, finally pulling away and sitting up again.  The loss of warmth and physical contact makes itself felt immediately, but he can’t just pitch over and lie back down when they just said they were moving to the bed, so instead he just reaches for Yuuri’s hand as they both get up.

Yuuri leads him into the bedroom and switches off the lights in the sitting room, turning on a lamp and plugging his phone into its charger at his bedside.  Viktor sets his on the nightstand next to it—he’ll have to worry about its battery tomorrow, he supposes—and flops down on the bed with a deep sigh.

Yuuri lies down too, more gently than Viktor did, and pulls the blanket up over both of them.  Then he pauses, glancing uncertainly at Viktor.  “Um… did you want to come over here, or…?”

Wordlessly, Viktor scoots closer, until their sides are pressed together and he has physical reassurance that really, he isn’t alone.  The thought hits him that in a few months, after their wedding, convention will dictate that they sleep in the same bed every night, though of course they don’t _have_ to.  Still, he thinks he could get used to this.

Yuuri rolls onto his side, looking down at him even as he tentatively twines their legs together.  Viktor looks back up at him, questioning, before a wave of exhaustion passes over him and he lets his eyes close.

“I like your eyelashes,” Yuuri says suddenly, and Viktor is startled enough that he blinks and squints up at him, nonplussed.

“You… like my _eyelashes?_ ” he repeats.

Yuuri blushes, ducking his head, and rolls away to turn off the lamp.  He’s back almost immediately, settling his arm carefully over Viktor’s shoulders slowly enough to send a very clear question (“Is this okay?”), to which Viktor replies by snuggling closer to him and wrapping his own arm around his waist (“Yes, more than just okay.”). 

“Yes,” he says.  “They’re very pretty.  Normally you have mascara on, but the silver is nice, too.  I like them like this.  It’s like a side of you that nobody else gets to see.”

That’s…

That’s such a silly little thing to notice, and yet it’s sweet enough that Viktor finds himself seriously contemplating replying with _I love you_.

He doesn’t, of course.

But the words sit there, on the tip of his tongue, and he tries them out silently, the darkness giving him courage.  _I love you_ , he doesn’t say, but he thinks one day he could.  It would come out so easily.  _I don’t know who I am yet, but you’re helping me find myself and I love you_.  It would fit.

“Good night, Vitya,” Yuuri adds, settling cozily into the pillows, and Viktor finally closes his eyes.

“Good night, Yuuri,” he answers.  There’s a loose ball of warmth sitting in the base of his stomach, coiled like a purring cat in the sunshine, and it only gets warmer when he thinks of the way Yuuri says his name— _Vitya, Vitya, good night, Vitya_ —or of the words he hasn’t quite said yet.

 _I love you_ , he doesn’t say, over and over again, until finally, sleep finds him.

* * *

“So how have you been lately?” Kenjirou chirps cheerfully over his tea, something that’s become a weekly tradition for the two of them after volunteering together at the orphanage.  Yuuri is glad for it.  Kenjirou’s presence is a constant comfort, a little piece of home—it means more to him than he’d ever really thought it would, having someone who he can speak Hinomatan with.

Yuuri groans.  “There’s _so_ _much_ that goes into planning a wedding,” he says, taking off his glasses to rub them on his shirt.  “We don’t even have to do most of it ourselves, we’re just overseeing things and approving final decisions and contemplating list after list after list, but oh my _god_.”

Kenjirou laughs sympathetically.  “All that on top of worrying about court life, huh?”  He hums, idly tapping his fingers on the sides of his teacup.  “You must be so tired!”

“Always,” Yuuri agrees, deadpan.  “I don’t think that’s really changed, though.  I feel like I’ve been tired forever.”

Kenjirou laughs again.  Yuuri gives him a wry look, then chuckles himself; he has to admit, court life _is_ exhausting.  It seems frivolous, on some level—they party, they have banquets, they sit around and talk politics and network with each other, but having to maintain so many façades, having to be ever-conscious of saying _just_ the right thing, having to constantly evaluate what could possibly motivating different people to do even small, seemingly inconsequential things… it does get tiring.

And that’s not even mentioning his near-constant use of empathy.  Juggling his perceptions of an entire roomful of people is a skill he’s not _bad_ at, if he’s completely honest, but he’s definitely not great at it.  He’s definitely gotten better since coming to Ruthenia—court here is a good deal larger than that of Hinomoto—but it’s painfully obvious to him that he needs more practice.

Well… at least he’s got time to do that.

“It’s strange,” he muses, half to himself, half to Kenjirou.

“What is?” Kenjirou asks, his head tilting to one side in curiosity.  It’s like he’s a confused puppy, Yuuri thinks—Makkachin does the same thing when Viktor pretends he’s about to toss a ball but then doesn’t.  It’s pretty cute.

But the thought of court sobers him quickly, and he sighs.  “I don’t really know how to quantify it, honestly.  But, ah… you know I practice empathy, right?”

Kenjirou nods.  “Your mother pulled me aside to mention it when I went back to Hinomoto most recently,” he says.  “That’s so cool of you, Yuuri!”

Yuuri laughs self-consciously and rubs the back of his neck, looking down into his tea.  “Well, um, thanks, Kenjirou.  Yes, I thought she would have told you.  Um… but yeah, what I meant, it’s just… I don’t know if it’s just because I’m not used to having to keep track of so many different people for so long, but…”

He hesitates.  He hasn’t told anyone this, not even Viktor, not even the Queen.  He doubts his own perceptions too much for that, and he _knows_ that what he’s about to say sounds silly.  It’s too vague and could easily be dismissed as paranoia, especially by non-empaths.  What he really wants to do is to talk to Minako about it, but the chance to do that hasn’t come up yet.

Perhaps he should call her tonight.  Or even sooner than tonight, really—he doesn’t want to be in the palace when he talks to her about it.  Maybe he could call from Kenjirou’s apartment.  It’s private enough, surely.

“But what?” Kenjirou prods gently.  “If you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to, but if you’re just wondering if I’ll listen, I promise I will!”

Yuuri sighs again, pressing his lips together, and hesitates for just a moment longer.  “I don’t—it’s just a very vague feeling,” he says slowly.  “And it’s more intense around certain people, I think, but I’ve had a hard time narrowing down _which_ people, and I don’t really know what that means.  But I just… I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something big going on right under our noses.  It feels like there is something _festering_ , stuck in the heart of the court, and nobody sees it.  I—I know that’s a really vague and unhelpful metaphor, that’s why I haven’t really told anyone about it, but you know, sometimes with empathy— _usually_ , with empathy, it’s just… vagueness and feelings.  That’s what it is.  It’s a feeling.”

Concern writes itself across Kenjirou’s face and radiates from his aura.  Concern, worry, mild apprehension, and a touch of bewilderment.  These are feelings Yuuri is familiar with, feelings he knows how to recognize and handle.  He clings to the certainty they provide.

“What kind of something?” Kenjirou asks.  “What should we do?”

“I don’t know,” Yuuri says helplessly.  “That’s what I mean—it’s vague and just a feeling and I… I don’t know.”

They finish their tea in silence.  It feels like the calm before a storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY BEFORE I GET INTO THE STORY NOTES!!!! the breathtakingly talented and amazingly lovely beanpots drew [THE MOST BEAUTIFUL THING IVE SEEN IN MY LIFE](http://beanpots.tumblr.com/post/158620822728/do-you-ever-just-get-hit-with-a-truckload-of) and you ALL NEED TO SEE IT (if you've already seen it SEE IT AGAIN I LOVE IT AND I LOVE POTS!!!!!!! ♥)
> 
> okay!!!! now that i'm mostly done screaming...
> 
> 1\. i think i might switch update day from tuesdays to wednesdays! i really... don't know why i even started posting on tuesdays to be honest - my monday night schedule is def the most packed of my entire week, so i didn't have time to edit, which is why i'm posting this so late today (i had to wait til i got back from class today to edit)!! so yeah, that's a thing that might happen.
> 
> 2\. on a related note, next chap might be late bc i generally do most of my writing on the weekend but this coming weekend kicks off my spring break, which means i'll be spending a large chunk of it travelling and stuff? so heads up for that!
> 
> 3\. _MILASARA MILASARA MILASARA MILASARA_  
>  (they will return later i swear. even if it seems like they only got last and this chapter. there will be more of them in the future.)
> 
> 4\. i hope this was explained clearly enough in-text but in case it wasn't, yuuri's empathy is some complicated stuff!!! a few comments were wondering how come he can be so dense and oblivious when he literally can sense people's feelings, and the simple reason for that is that feelings are messy and confusing. he gets impressions and emotions from people, but his only metric for interpreting those is himself and his own emotions, which actually means that the closer he is to someone (specifically, the more he lets his own thoughts color his attempts at interpreting his empathic perceptions), the harder it is effectively for him to read them. 
> 
> 5\. i know there's a looot of ocs and i keep bringing in more :o i hope it's not overwhelming and that it's easy enough to keep track of them!!!
> 
> 6\. lol i can't believe i forgot the chapter preview blurb at the end of ch 6. anyway, here it is...
> 
> next time: ice glimmers so brightly in the sunlight, shining down on the streets in midsummer.


	8. the bitterness of winter, the sweetness of spring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for somewhat-graphic violence.
> 
> Also, there's a scene with a link to some mood music (I just stuck the link on one of the words in the scene), if you're into that sort of thing!

There are definitely some perks that come with being second in line to a throne.  One of them is having a suite of rooms with a _balcony_.  Yuri grins to himself, taking his laptop outside and settling down in the lounge chair he put out here a while ago for precisely this purpose—the weather is good, not too cold and definitely not hot, and he’s ready to recline in the sunlight for a while.

And, of course, to chat with Beka.  That’s part of the weekly routine, too.

Pretty soon, he sees the little orange icon next to “Otabek Altin” change to green, just on time, and hits the call button.  Beka picks up quickly, as he always does.

“Hey,” Yuri greets, waving.  The downside to sitting outside is that the screen is never quite bright enough, but he’ll deal—it’s _way_ nicer than going back to his desk or something.

“Hi,” Beka replies, and even in the dimness, Yuri can see him smiling.  “Looks like you have some nice weather.”

“Hell yeah,” Yuri agrees.  He picks up the laptop and turns around, showing off the garden below his balcony and how green it is in the summer sunlight, then plops back down into his cozy seat.  “It’s pretty great.  How is it over there?”

Beka gets that little crinkle near his eyes that means he’s laughing on the inside, even if it only shows in the faintest of smiles, and moves to the side so Yuri can see the window behind him.  The sky is a good deal darker and there’s—oh, wow, that’s definitely quite the downpour.

“Sucks,” Yuri says, not very sympathetically.

“Thanks,” Beka answers, his voice dry enough to make up for the deluge outside and then some.  “Your sympathy is appreciated.”

“’Course it is.”  Yuri puts the laptop back down on the footrest, then lies back down along the chair on his stomach, lazily kicking his feet in the air until they bump the back of the chair behind him.  “You should just come over here, the weather’s obviously better.”

“Ah, yes,” Beka agrees, dry and deadpan as ever.  “Let me just do that.  My evening is free, after all.  Nothing at all could go wrong with this plan.”

Yuri snorts.  “No,” he says, “but I mean seriously, you should come visit sometime.  It’s been forever, I haven’t seen you in person since last autumn, and that was almost a year ago, so I mean, what the hell?”

Beka’s brow furrows.  “Aren’t you coming to Qazrazi soon?” he asks.  “I thought you said you wanted to come for Qarbin.”

“I do!” Yuri assures him quickly.  “ _And_ I talked to Grandpa and he talked to Aunt Vasilisa and I’m good to go and everything.  I just meant you should come over _before_ that.  Because it’s not until later this year and by the time I would leave to get over there for Qarbin, we would’ve passed the ‘one year of purely long-distance friendship’ mark and I’m not about that kind of fucking life.”

Beka ponders that for a moment.  “That _is_ true,” he says.  “I’ll have to see about my schedule, especially because this is kind of short notice—don’t look at me like that, Yura, you _know_ making plans for international travel less than two months in advance is somewhat short notice—but I’d like to.”

“Plus,” Yuri wheedles, “if you come, you can finally meet Katsudon and see exactly what I mean when I say Viktor is the most goddamn ridiculous person I’ve ever met.  I swear, Beka, just one week of watching them flirt, oh my _god_.  Or even worse is when Viktor _mopes_ because Katsudon did something that he thought was ‘adorable’,” he wrinkles his nose, complete with finger-quotes, “and he supposedly ‘ _can’t handle this, Yura,_ _what am I supposed to do when I find him dancing with Makkachin?_ ’  Like, holy shit, maybe you shut up and either like, sit down and stop staring like an idiot, or you leave and let him do his thing?  Why is this such a big deal, if it’s so great just go dance with him and the damn dog, I just—”

He breaks off to bury his face in his hands with an exaggerated groan, but Beka is nowhere _near_ appreciating the amount of misery Viktor’s lovesick pining puts Yuri through, because Beka, absolute _ass_ that he is, is actually _laughing_.

“Your sympathy is _not_ appreciated,” Yuri throws his own words back at him, as flatly as he can manage.  “This is what I mean.  You need to get your unsympathetic ass over here and suffer with me so you stop _laughing_ —I mean it, stop laughing at me—I said _stop_ , that’s the opposite of—”

Beka (has Yuri mentioned that he’s an ass?) is just laughing harder, one hand covering his mouth in a feeble, shitty attempt to pretend he’s not just a motherfucker who finds amusement in his friends’ pain.  Yuri scowls at him, doing a pretty great job of pretending that Beka laughing doesn’t make him want to laugh too, if he does say so himself.

“Beka, you suck,” Yuri tells him, rolling his eyes.  “I am fucking _surrounded_ by people who think it’s funny when I have to put up with this shit.  The other day we were all at lunch, right, and Mila won’t stop fucking giggling at her phone, so Georgi was like, hey Mila, what’s so funny?  And she holds it up so we can see and it’s a bunch of fucking ‘wholesome memes’ she’s been sending and getting from Princess Crispino.  Like, I’m talking Pepe the fucking frog and the words ‘I love my gf’ in _comic sans_ , and she was _so pleased_ by this shit, and I swear to god, Beka, if you don’t stop laughing at me I’m coming over there to kick your ass _right now_ —”

“Would I ever laugh at my good friend,” Beka asks, and his voice is impressively stoic, but he’s still hiding his mouth behind his hand, which means he’s still smiling, which in Beka-speak is pretty much equivalent to outright laughter all over again, so…

“Yes,” Yuri huffs.  “Yes, you would, because you suck.”

“I’m wounded,” comes the deadpan response. 

“No, you’re not,” Yuri contradicts.  “Being wounded would imply you have regrets about doing something that made me say that you suck, which you _clearly_ do not.”

“I’m not entirely sure that that’s the actual connotation of getting wounded by being told that one sucks,” Beka says, “but I suppose I’ll let it slide.”

Yuri laughs.  “Yeah, of course you will, since you know I’m right!”

Beka snorts.  He finally stops hiding his face, though, instead resting his chin on his palm, and looks into the camera with a small smile.  “Of course, whatever floats your boat, Yura,” he says.  “Anyway, aside from exasperation at everyone around you having a love life, how have you been?”

Yuri props himself up on his elbows, turning his face up to the sun as a soft breeze whispers through the trees and bushes of the courtyard below his balcony, sending the gentle sound of rustling branches drifting up to him and also more annoyingly pushing his hair into his face.  He tucks it behind his ears as it should be, then shrugs.  “Pretty good, I guess.  Viktor and Katsudon are running around between court and wedding preparations, which is like, the biggest thing going on around here, even if it’s still a few months off, because I guess royal weddings are always the shit or whatever.  Katsudon was stressing about the color of floral arrangements the other day, as if I would be _any_ help with that shit.  But other than that, I’m tired of classes and I’m even more tired of court, so yeah.”

“Understandable,” Beka sighs, and for a moment Yuri feels a pang of sympathy—real, actual sympathy, not fake _I’m so sorry for your stupid cousin and his stupid love life_ sympathy, so like, take notes, Beka—because he’s gotta be even more tired of court than Yuri is.  Beka is, like Viktor, the direct heir to his country’s throne, next in line, only he’s nine years younger than Viktor and still has to deal with all the same kinds of bullshit.  It’s gotta be gross.  “Anything of note going on there?”

A shrug.  “Not really.  It’s all the same old stuff every day, y’know?  Aunt Vasilisa and Viktor sit up there doing their thing, the Vinogradovs bend over backwards to assure House Nikiforov that they’re still our friends—should I say ‘our’ if I’m technically Plisetsky but am gonna change my name to Nikiforov when I inherit?  I dunno—and Ivanovich and Golovkina both act like desperate dogs fighting over the scraps at the end of the table to prove that their faction is the next most powerful, after the throne.  So yeah.  Nothing really _happens_.”

“Hm,” Beka says.  “I don’t think that that’s a bad thing, though.”

Yuri shrugs again.  “I guess not, it’s better than bad stuff happening if that’s what you mean.  I think they’re both getting desperate though, because the alliance is holding up but Hinomoto and Corée have been kinda on edge with each other lately, and both of them want out of the mutual defense clause, so… I dunno, I know Viktor’s mentioned he’s kinda suspicious that they might try to join forces just to get rid of Katsudon and the alliance before a war can break out.  Which would suck.”

“Hm,” Beka muses again, his face thoughtful.  “It’s not really my place to ask about the inner workings of your court past surface news, anyway, and I suppose it’s not particularly professional of me either, but I have to say I’m curious.  What do you think about that?”

Yuri blinks.  What does _he_ think about that?  For starters, Ivanovich and Golovkina can both go fuck themselves gently with chainsaws, and leave the royal family alone, thanks. 

Sometimes he thinks he’s not cut out for politics, because he hates thinking about things in such impersonal terms—Viktor sometimes goes from extolling the virtues of the shape of Katsudon’s nose, of all things (Yuri really wishes this example was an exaggeration), to a thoughtful consideration of reasons members of court might want to have Katsudon murdered in various ways—and Viktor has considered methods, too, from poison to foul play to staged accidents, and what the merits and drawbacks of each of those would be in terms of the political game and how likely any given scenario is to play out. 

And it all makes _sense_ to Yuri, but at the same time, the thought of casually discussing the worth of people he cares about as if they’re just pawns on a board turns his stomach.  And of course it’s not like Viktor doesn’t care about Katsudon—any idiot with eyes, ears, or even the brain of a sea slug can see that, if they know Viktor at all—but he just… he has the ability to step back and look at things from such a cool, removed, logical perspective, a perspective that still feels painfully foreign to Yuri. 

Yes, he can understand why someone sending an assassin after Katsudon might prefer it to clearly look like foul play, to send a distinct message that there’s direct opposition to allying with Hinomoto and to send Hinomoto the message that the Nikiforovs can’t be trusted, that their power isn’t consolidated enough to have control over their court, but… sitting and thinking about it and casually discussing it with Katsudon, over tea and biscuits, just feels wrong.

“Well,” he says after a moment’s thought, blowing out his breath, “I… don’t really know what I think.  I don’t want that shit to happen, I mean, obviously, you know?  But sometimes I wonder if I’m supposed to not want it for other reasons than the ones I do.”

Reasons he might be supposed to want Katsudon alive include: proving a point in that House Nikiforov can secure an alliance and protect its foreign interests despite internal opposition from the Ruthenian court, which would go a long way towards undoing the damage that King Pyotr did; having an alliance with Hinomoto and Hinomoto’s strong military in the East; opening avenues for trade and scientific exchange with regions in the East as further expansion there becomes prioritized, et cetera…

Reasons he actually wants Katsudon alive: Katsudon is his friend.

Not that he’s going to tell anyone other than maybe Beka that, really, but it’s _true_ , Katsudon is his friend and he doesn’t want anything to happen to him, but it’s just… _ugh_.

“That’s a fair question,” Beka agrees.  “There are times when I wonder that myself, whether I’m doing the things I’m doing for the right reasons, or whether maybe I’m not actually that cut out for the throne.”

Yuri stares at him incredulously.  “You’re like, the most princely person I know, other than _maybe_ Viktor, and that’s a strong maybe.”

Beka quirks a small smile at him.  “Thank you for the vote of confidence,” he says.  “But what I was trying to say was that I don’t think uncertainty is uncommon.  Questioning yourself makes you more aware of yourself and of what you’re doing, and in my opinion, will eventually make you a stronger leader.”

“I guess,” Yuri says with a moody shrug, picking at the embroidery on his cushions.  “I dunno.  It’s weird and like…yeah.  I don’t know.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Beka assures him.  “You have time, Yura.  Don’t rush yourself and try to hold yourself to standards that you can’t reach yet.  You can work up to things.”

“I guess,” Yuri says again.  Then he shakes his head, indicating that he’s _done_ talking about his insecurities and shit, because yeah, no, not today.  It’s way to pretty out here to be _moping_ and shit.  “Anyway.  Enough about me, how have you been?”

Beka sits back, runs a hand through his hair, and sighs.  “I’m well,” he says.  “Mostly just tired.  At least today was the last day of that conference.  I made sure to clear my schedule tomorrow morning so I can sleep in.  I have nothing before noon, and I’m looking forward to it.”

“Nice,” Yuri snorts.  “How’re you feeling about the conference?  Productive, or a waste of time?”

“Pretty productive,” Beka says.  “It was exhausting, having to stay up that late for a whole week, but if that’s what it takes to start restructuring our public education system, that’s what we’ll do.  I’m satisfied with what we came up with—my parents will officially approve the final document tomorrow evening, and we’ll start implementing the new procedures by the end of the year.  I’m actually pretty excited about it.”

“Are you gonna go run away to be a public schoolteacher now?” Yuri teases.  “I can just see you hanging out with a bunch of small children.  _A for apple, B for ball_ —”

“Actually,” Beka says, and he gets that twinkle of amusement in his eyes again, “I _am_ going to be spending one day every week volunteering at elementary schools in Alama.  So it’s not quite running away, but…”

“Oh my god,” Yuri says, because he personally cannot comprehend the concept of voluntarily choosing to spend time around grubby, loud, annoying small children, which means Beka is probably crazy, but he’s honestly known that for a while. “Good fucking luck, Beka.”

“Children really aren’t that bad,” Beka points out, incorrectly, because the last child Yuri interacted with thought it’d be a great idea to grab his hair and _yank_ just because it’s long enough to do that with, and then there was some screaming, and then, well, long story short, children really _are_ that bad, and also maybe Yuri is just really not good with them.  “And I’m pretty sure none of them can ever be more insufferable than my sister was when she was their age, so…”

Yuri laughs.  “I’m just glad I’m an only child,” he says.  “Never had to worry about any of that shit.”

“Being an older sibling is pretty nice,” Beka shrugs.  “I enjoy taking care of people.  Maybe that’s part of it.”

“Well of course you do,” Yuri snorts.  “You’re a _blood mage_ , mister healing hands and all that.  See, this is what I mean about being all princely and whatnot.  Everyone likes blood mages, you’re like Aunt Vasilisa, all noble and shit.  ‘I enjoy taking care of people’, says the guy who supposedly doubts his own damn princeliness.”

There’s an amused undercurrent to Beka’s voice now.  “I only said I doubt myself _sometimes_ , not constantly, Yura,” he points out.  “Though it is kind of you to try to reassure me.”

Yuri rolls his eyes, ducking his head self-consciously.  “Yeah, yeah, whatever.  I just thought you should know.  In case sometimes was now or something.  But it’s stupid anyway so yeah.”

“Appreciated nonetheless,” Beka says, and then shrugs, easily dropping the topic just like that.  This is why Yuri likes him.  He doesn’t press on stupid things.  Even if he does like to have the last word sometimes.  “What else is going on?”

“I’m trying to convince Grandpa to let me get a cat,” Yuri says.  He has everything planned out, down to a speech about how having to care for another living being will, like, teach him responsibility and shit. 

“Really?” Beka raises an eyebrow. “What kind?”

“The cute kind,” Yuri says.  “ _Obviously_.”

Beka stares at him, nonplussed.  “All cats are cute.”

Laughter bubbles up in Yuri’s throat, spilling out despite his attempt to hide it behind his hand.  “Yeah, I know that!” he says, grinning.  “I was trying to say I don’t have a preference about what kind because all cats are cute, but whatever, you said the right thing.  This is why I keep you around, Beka.”

Beka snorts.  “But I’m not around,” he points out, reasonably enough, and Yuri rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, but you _could_ be,” he says.  “Even if it is short notice.  You should come over, you hear me?”

Beka sighs.  “I can’t make any promises right now, Yura,” he says honestly, “but I will see what I can do.”

It’ll have to be good enough, Yuri supposes.  He can’t really hope for more than that.

* * *

 

 

[17:48] Vitya:  
Yuuri!!!! Let’s go out for dinner today?

[17:49] Yuuri:  
um… is it okay if we maybe do that tomorrow instead?

[17:49] Vitya:  
Oh sure, that’s fine too!!  Is everything okay?

[17:50] Yuuri:  
ummm the katsudon is probably around a 7 right now and i dont know why? :/ sorry

[17:50] Vitya:  
Got it.  Do you want space, or do you want me to come there?

[17:51] Yuuri:  
um… you could… come here? only if it wouldn’t be too much trouble though, ill be fine otherwise, don’t worry about it, i don’t want to be any trouble or anything

[17:51] Vitya:  
You’re not any trouble!  My schedule is pretty free anyway, since I thought we might go out, but staying in works too!. :)  
On my way now!!! <3

* * *

_Knock knock._   Two gentle raps on the door.

“Yuuri?  It’s me,” Viktor calls, and Yuuri takes a deep breath and forces himself to look presentable instead of like a trembling wreck (just in case anyone else is in the hallway.  Just in case they see him.  He can’t be thought of as weak, he _can’t_.) and crosses the room, reaching for the knob.

“Hey,” he greets softly as soon as he pulls it open.  He thinks he’s doing a fair job of making himself look like he's holding it together, but as soon as Viktor steps inside and closes the door behind himself, he crumples inward, wrapping his arms around himself and biting his lip.  

“Hi,” Viktor answers.  He closes the door behind himself and then looks at Yuuri, hesitating, and Yuuri can sense how helpless he feels, like he wants to fix this but doesn’t know how, and it only makes him feel worse.  He squeezes his eyes shut.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Viktor says immediately.  “…It’s okay,” he adds after a moment, and Yuuri can’t help but remember his therapy session two weeks ago, the one where he got Viktor to come in with him, specifically to discuss strategies for Viktor to help Yuuri cope.  Despite that, it must still be overwhelming to be asked to deal with this, and he really should’ve pushed him away, instead of being honest and saying he doesn’t want to be alone, and—

“I’m sorry,” he squeaks out again, then winces, because that doesn’t help either of them.  It sends him further into guilt and only leaves Viktor that much more clueless.  “I mean—sorry, I just—no, that’s not—I don’t— _god_ , why can’t I talk?  I—”

“If it’s easier, you don’t have to talk, Yuuri,” Viktor says, looking at him with an odd, scrutinizing gaze that leaves him feeling oddly vulnerable and exposed.  “You’re shaking.  Why don’t you sit down?  I’ll make you tea, does that sound good?”

Not talking.  Yes, not talking sounds great.  He nods jerkily, wraps his arms around himself and presses his fingers into his own arms hard enough that it hurts, and squeezes his eyes shut, shoulders hunched.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

There’s a soft sigh, coupled with the sound of movement, but Yuuri doesn’t open his eyes.  Staring at nothing is a lot less overwhelming than staring at anything.

“Can I touch you?” Viktor asks.

Yuuri hesitates for a moment.  Then he nods again, a sharp bob of his head, still not trusting himself to speak without bursting into tears or hyperventilating or something.  Touch doesn’t sound bad, so long as he has warning that it’s coming; it can be soothing, when there isn’t too much all at once.  Sometimes he feels trapped, sometimes he feels comforted.  These things are apparently very hit-and-miss, which is _really_ annoying, honestly.

Something warm settles around his shoulders, and it’s the kind of warm that’s comfortingly heavy—grounding him in reality, surrounding him in one feeling like a shield, protecting him from the outside world and its too-many stimuli that clamor and crescendo into an overwhelming cacophony, rising up like a dark wave rushing to shore, ready to drown him.  He’s been standing on the shore, rooted in place, helpless to flee—he’s been on an island, maybe, and the wave has been coming from every side—but now, there’s a seawall, a protective barrier.  It doesn’t stop everything from spilling over, but the worst of it is diverted.

Yuuri opens his eyes.

“Go sit down,” Viktor says again, gentle but firm.  “I’ll make you tea, and then we can do whatever you want.  Okay?”

“Okay,” Yuuri manages, his voice actually kind of working—what a surprise.  Perhaps it has to do with the too-large, richly embroidered maroon jacket that’s wrapped around him, still warm from being on Viktor’s shoulders just seconds ago.  “…Thank you.”

Viktor smiles.  “You’re welcome,” he says, and then he heads to the kitchenette and pours some water into the kettle for tea.  Yuuri stares after him for a moment, trying to get his brain in order, and then stumbles to the couch, Viktor’s jacket still clutched around him like a blanket.  He doesn’t bother to put his arms through the sleeves; something about wearing it like a cape feels vaguely more secure.

(It smells like Viktor, and he doesn’t really know what to think about that other than that he _likes_ it.)

When Viktor settles down next to him, Yuuri looks up, startled out of staring at the floor and thinking about what in the world it might be that’s making him feel like this today—it feels like it’s simultaneously nothing and everything.

“Here’s your tea,” Viktor says, offering a mug.  “It’s still rather hot, but I can cool it down for you, if you’d like.”

“In… in a minute,” Yuuri says softly.  He takes the mug carefully, holding it in one hand and resting it on his legs so the warmth can seep through his clothes, while the other hand keeps holding the jacket around himself.  Next to him, Viktor lets out a careful breath; he seems relieved.  Good.  Yuuri doesn’t want him to be stressed, _especially_ not on his behalf.  Relief means he must be doing something right.

They sit in silence for a few moments.  Yuuri gazes into the depths of his mug, taking deep, careful breaths.  The steam smells nice—light and slightly fruity, without being too strong or overpowering.  It’s almost painfully familiar; he’s found pomegranate green tea here, but this particular blend is from the box he brought from home, the huge one that he’s been trying to save for bad days.  Today is definitely a day that merits it, but… 

Something about the way the scent of the tea brings back memories of his parents’ favorite sitting room, sunlight streaming in from the huge windows and the laughter of his family filling the air, something about how it whispers _home_ , makes his eyes prickle and begin to water.  He hasn’t cried from homesickness in—in a while, really, now that he thinks about it—but he supposes it has to rear its head every now and then.  Of course it does.

Anyway, his tea smells like home and this jacket smells like Viktor and they’re both warm and comforting, and suddenly he feels safe enough that the walls come down and then the tears spill over, rolling silently down his cheeks.  Viktor lets out a quiet sound of dismay.

“Yuuri!  Yuuri, what is it?” he asks worriedly, hands fluttering near his chest like he wants to reach out but isn’t sure if he should. 

Yuuri appreciates that—he’s listened, when Yuuri told him he doesn’t always want to be touched when he’s upset—but this is one of the times when he could use the comfort, he thinks, so he just sniffles and scoots sideways until their legs are pressed together, laying his head on Viktor’s shoulder in both a silent granting of permission and a request.

Viktor hears, loud and clear, because the emotions from him suddenly feel like another cool wave of relief washing gently over an agitated shoreline, and then he wraps his arm around Yuuri’s waist, pulling him close.  He even twists about a little bit, his other hand stroking Yuuri’s cheek for a moment, and Yuuri sniffles again, closing his eyes.

“Is this okay?” Viktor asks quietly.

Yuuri nods against his shoulder.  He’s not _really_ crying, not yet anyway—there are tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes, yes, but his breathing isn’t _that_ labored and he doesn’t feel like there’s a sob choking and clawing its way up his throat.  It’s just… quiet tears.  That’s all.

They sit together like this for several minutes, long enough for Viktor to start humming (perhaps an attempt to give Yuuri something to focus on, as he makes himself calm down and whatnot, which is a surprisingly thoughtful gesture).  Eventually, he breaks the silence again (properly, this time).

“Are you feeling a little better?”

Yuuri nods again.  He thinks the tea is probably drinkable now, but he doesn’t want to move, not when they’re like this and he feels so … so _safe_.  It feels like if he moves, he’ll disrupt the quiet, soft balance they’ve reached here, and he won’t be able to return to this soothing, secure equilibrium.  He doesn’t want that.  This feels good.  This is helping.

“I’m glad,” Viktor says, giving him a gentle squeeze.  “What do you want to do now?”

“Not sure,” Yuuri mumbles, too uncertain to admit _I just want you to stay with me, just like this_ out loud.  He finally does lift his head, though, because if Viktor wants to do something else, he’s not going to make him stay, and he might as well sip his tea while he’s sitting up properly.

But Viktor doesn’t pull away, keeps his arm right where it is, still wrapped around Yuuri like a lifeline, and Yuuri eventually relaxes against his side, slowly sipping his tea.  Viktor seems pleased.

“Do you want to tell me something that’s been on your mind today?” he asks.  It’s phrased as a _do you want this_ instead of _tell me about it_ , and the distinction might be small, but it’s poignant enough that Yuuri has a flash of the thought _I could kiss you for that_ before he hurriedly shoves it away.  This isn’t the time for thinking about his attraction to his fiancé, so if maybe the part of his brain that’s busy repeating a long litany of all of the wonderful things about Viktor on repeat could get that memo, that’d be great.

“Not really,” he admits, fidgeting with one of the buttons on Viktor’s jacket. “I… don’t really know and it’s confusing and I don’t want to think about it.  Everything is just… too much.  I’m sorry.  I don’t really—I can’t explain it very well, I guess, I’m just, um… overwhelmed?  It’s like—it’s like the world is just too big right now and I can’t handle it all.”

“Okay,” Viktor says, gentle and accomodating, and isn’t _that_ something else to love about him—

Love?

 _Oh_. 

Maybe that’s what this is, after all.  Viktor is important to him, close to him in a way he’s never really felt with anyone else before, and even though a year ago they hadn’t known each other, the idea of not having Viktor in his life is… sad.  Whatever he feels for Viktor, love seems like a good way to describe it.

Somehow, that realization doesn’t panic him.  In fact, it does the opposite—it’s calming.  Is falling in love with Viktor Nikiforov supposed to feel as natural as breathing?

“Do you want to do something as a distraction?” Viktor asks, his fingers starting to rub soothing little circles into Yuuri’s side, slow and gentle.  “Or do you just want to sit here?  We can do whatever you want, Yuuri.”

“Thank you,” Yuuri murmurs, and wonders if Viktor hears it as the _I love you_ he means it as.  He can’t quite bring himself to say that so directly, not today when he wants to cling to certainty and hide from doubt and hesitation and fear and _things that could possibly go horribly wrong in ten thousand ways_ , but he hopes Viktor knows anyway.  “I… um… I think a distraction might be good?”

“Alright!” Viktor smiles warmly, warmly enough that Yuuri thinks maybe he did hear it after all, and gives him a gentle squeeze.  “How about we relocate to the bed, get cozy, and watch a movie or something?”

“That… sounds good,” Yuuri agrees.  He takes another long sip of tea, shifting against Viktor’s side just enough to make himself fully aware of the way their bodies are pressed together, from head to foot—it’s grounding and good, and he doesn’t want to move, not yet.  “After my tea?”

“Yes, of course,” Viktor says.  “Take your time, Yuuri, we aren’t in a rush.”

They sit together for a minute or two longer, and although it’s quiet, it’s not the kind of silence that makes Yuuri feel tense or awkward.  It’s simple, just a quiet companionship that doesn’t necessarily need to be filled with words.  He finishes his tea, then lays his head against Viktor’s shoulder again.  Anxiety is so tiring; he could fall asleep here, he thinks.

Eventually, he sighs, straightening enough to put the empty mug on the coffee table.  Viktor was right, actually; moving to the bed sounds like a fantastic idea, especially if he thinks he might fall asleep, thanks to the post-“really bad anxiety that wasn’t _quite_ a panic attack but damn did it come close” slump.  “Should we… should we go start the movie?”

“Yes, we can do that,” Viktor says.  He disentangles himself and gets to his feet, and Yuuri immediately misses the feel of his arm around him, but at least he still has the jacket.  He stands up, too, and follows Viktor as he starts walking to the bedroom.  “Can you get your computer out?”

“Yes,” Yuuri manages.  He plods to his desk, but when he notices Viktor isn’t following, he stops, confused.  “Where are you going?”

Viktor pulls open the linen storage closet with a wink.  “Why, Yuuri, I’m getting all the extra pillows and a few of the blankets out.  We said we were going to get cozy, right?”

“Oh,” Yuuri says.  “Well… alright then.”

He lets Viktor worry about the coziness factor, moving his computer to the bed and plugging it in over there before he settles down, clutches Viktor’s jacket a bit more tightly around his shoulders, and waits.  Viktor drapes a blanket around him for good measure, tucks some extra pillows behind his back and against his sides, and then squeezes into the pile with him, wrapping his arm around Yuuri’s waist again and letting him lean against his chest.

“Good?” Viktor asks.

“Yeah,” Yuuri mumbles, heart pounding ever so slightly from the sudden proximity again.  It’s not a _bad_ kind of heart-pounding, though; it’s more like… anticipation, almost.  He closes his eyes for a moment, takes a deep breath, and lets it out as a sigh.  He feels significantly better than earlier, and it’s all thanks to Viktor, really.

“So.  Shall we find a movie?” Viktor suggests, reaching for Yuuri’s laptop.

“Yeah,” Yuuri agrees, laying his head against Viktor’s shoulder again.  “Something cute?”

“Your wish,” Viktor says solemnly, “is my command.”

He doesn’t really pay much attention while Viktor browses, concentrating more on the sensations around him—the softness of the pillows tucked around him, the feel of Viktor’s shirt against his cheek, the embroidery on the jacket when he runs his thumbs over it.  All of these things are useful, are grounding.

“Ah!” Viktor suddenly says, glancing over.  “How’s this one?”  There’s a soft look in his eyes, and Yuuri can’t help but wonder if he means to be projecting as much gentle contentment as he is, because just being exposed to that is… really helpful, actually.  When he lets his own consciousness lightly brush against Viktor’s, it’s like a breath of fresh air.

Viktor looks at him curiously, but he doesn’t say anything, giving Yuuri the time he needs.  Yuuri closes his eyes for a moment, breathing in and out, slow and careful, before he opens them and looks at the screen.  It’s a Hinomotan movie, one of his favorites, too.

“Yes,” he murmurs.  “That looks good.  Thank you, Vitya.”

He’s not just talking about the movie, or even about the jacket or the blanket pile.  But the smile on Viktor’s face leaves him with no doubt that he knows exactly what he means.

“You’re welcome, Yuuri.”

He leans over and presses his lips to Yuuri’s hair.  Yuuri freezes for a moment, eyes wide.  That’s not—people might _flirt_ without it meaning anything but _kisses?_   But—no, no, he can’t possibly even hope for that, it’s obviously that Viktor is just free with affection, even platonic intimacy—

Except what if it’s _not_ that, and he’s just letting his own self-depreciation get in the way?  Because frankly, if he’s completely honest with himself, the emotions he feels from Viktor often feel like the same emotions he feels _toward_ Viktor, and if he’s pretty sure he has a romantic interest in his fiancé, then maybe he _does_ need to entertain the possibility, but also…

This is confusing and he’s probably going to overthink himself into _another_ state of high anxiety, if he isn’t careful.  Maybe he should save all this careful consideration for when he feels more stable.

What does he know?

One.  He likes Viktor, a lot.  Viktor is very important to him—a good friend, a pillar of support, someone he trusts and whose company he enjoys.  Someone he… loves?  Yes, at this point… he’s pretty sure it wouldn’t be wrong to say he does love Viktor. 

Two.  This, whatever “this” is, is good.  Maybe he hasn’t found the right label for everything, but whatever they have between them doesn’t necessarily need a label.  And that’s … that’s okay.  So long as it’s good, for both of them, a label doesn’t _matter_. 

Three.  He doesn’t mind it (he kind of actively likes it) when Viktor kisses his hair like that.

All of these things point at one conclusion, which is that he should stop fretting and just take this as it is.  So he does, just nestling a little closer and letting the opening strains of the title theme wash over him.  Viktor settles his arm around him again, which—which is _nice_ —and leans his cheek against Yuuri’s head, and the feeling of contentment only grows, and—

Yuuri thinks that maybe, just maybe, he’s going to be okay after all.

* * *

 

[21:38] Yuuri:  
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa???

[21:39] homobipboa:  
yes?

[21:39] Yuuri:  
do u ever just feel like (*´ω｀*) but with more blushing for over an hour straight  
pls help???

[21:40] homobipboa:  
whatd ur bf do

[21:40] Yuuri:  
1) not my bf (yet?????? did we skip the “bf” stage, we are engaged??????)  
2) HE KISSED THE TOP OF MY HEAD EARLIER AND IM STILL THINKING ABT IT  
3) also we spent the evening cuddling and im going to implode pls help

[21:41] homobipboa:  
        L  L

[21:41] Yuuri:  
??

[21:41] homobipboa:  
+-(✿ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) -+  
        L  L

[21:42] Yuuri:  
oh my god phichit no

[21:42] homobipboa:  
      /    \  
+-(✿ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) -+  
        L  L

[21:42] Yuuri:  
phichit

 

[21:43] homobipboa:  
        /\  
      /    \  
+-(✿ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) -+ _hello_  
        L  L

[21:43] Yuuri:  
sldjfklsjd PHICHIT WHAT THE FUCK

[21:43] homobipboa:  
W H A T  H A V E  W E  H E R E  
yuuri. yuuri my sweet precious ridiculous child.

[21:43] Yuuri:  
im older than you

[21:44] homobipboa:  
THIS CALLS FOR MORE THAN JUST A LENNY  
do i look like i care. you are my child. shhh. shhhhhhhh. its okay.

[21:44] Yuuri:  
im!!!!!!  
i don’t even know what to say aaaaaa

[21:44] homobipboa:  
too full of warm fuzzies to be able to talk???? ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

[21:44] Yuuri:  
y e s??? ??? ?? ?? ????? ?? ?  help me

[21:45] homobipboa:  
i demand a play-by-play of everything that happened here. go

[21:45] Yuuri:  
iiiii wassss having a kinda bad day with anxiety and stuff and i told him and then like  
he came over and made tea for me and then we got a bunch of pillows and blankets and sat on the bed and watched howls moving castle  
hes gonna be back any minute now he just went to his room to get a change of clothes and stuff  
but yeah he’s staying over tonight bc like we were saying we might watch another movie and he said he wanted to stay so he could make sure im ok  
phichiiiitttt  
aaaaaaaaaa

[21:46] homobipboa:  
omg omg this is so cute omg omg omg  
im so happy hes taking care of u also, hes getting points in my book  
this is SO cute yuuri holy heck  
smooch that boy he smooched u its only fair

[21:47] Yuuri:  
??!?!!??!?!??!?!???!!!??!???!???

[21:47] homobipboa:  
u don’t even have to start with a full on smoochy smooch u can just like  
nose kisses!!  
smooch his snoot yuuri

[21:47] Yuuri:  
that’s!!!!! too forward!!!!!!!!

[21:48] homobipboa:  
smooch! the!! snoot!!!

[21:48] Yuuri:  
aaaaaaaaa???????????????  
what if i go with forehead or cheeks or something i feel like that’s safer???

[21:48] homobipboa:  
i mean you COULD but i still think u should go for the snoot  
he tttoooootally likes u yuuri  
how often does he kiss people who arent u on the head or otherwise

[21:49] Yuuri:  
um…………………  
oh my god i never paid attention to that i just kind of assumed hes like this  
but now that i think about it?????  
he DOESNT normally greet people with hand kisses except if theyre friends or like other royalty  
oh my god?????

[21:50] homobipboa:  
NOW WHAT MIGHT THIS MEAN ¯\\_( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)_/¯

[21:50] Yuuri:  
PHICHIT HOW DO I PROCESS THIS INFORMATION  
WHAT IF HE ACTUALLY DOES  
YOU KNOW

[21:50] homobipboa:  
you mean what if he actually does like you?

[21:51] Yuuri:  
YES THAT!!!!!!!!

[21:51] homobipboa:  
well you first step back and admit that you are a great, wonderful, likable person and that hes lucky to have you in his life to begin with, let alone to be marrying you,  
and then you smooch the snoot.

[21:51] Yuuri:  
OH MY GOD HES BACK AT MY DOOR I GTG BYE AAAAAA

[21:52] homobipboa:  
( ͡°з ͡°)

* * *

Yuuri looks a lot more relaxed now than he did earlier.  Viktor is glad—more than glad—to see the contrast when he opens the door; this time, Yuuri looks like he can breathe easier, even smiles at him as he settles back into the pillows.  Viktor deposits his extra clothes on the nightstand for now, plugs his phone into the wall, and then joins him.  There isn’t a ton of space, what with the pillows and laptop and extra blankets all crammed onto the bed, but the upside is that so long as they sit cuddled up close together, it’s quite comfortable and snug.

“Hi again,” he says, holding out his arm again, and Yuuri nestles against his side easily.  He’s still wearing Viktor’s jacket, and oh boy is _that_ doing funny things to his heart or what?  It’s a bit too big on him, because Viktor is broader in the shoulders, and the way Yuuri is wearing it just makes him look even smaller.  Overall, Viktor has the urge to scoop him up and protect him, and also quite possibly to kiss him a few times to boot, but that doesn’t seem like particularly appropriate behavior for the moment, so he has to abstain.

Still, though.

He gives in just enough to kiss Yuuri’s hair again, because seeing Yuuri when he’s hurting and vulnerable _really_ makes him want to protect and take care of him, and generally, when Viktor thinks of emotional comfort, he thinks about affection. 

“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” he adds.  Yuuri lets out a soft sound and turns slightly, wrapping his arm loosely around Viktor’s waist and settling against him snugly.  Viktor’s eyebrows shoot up, and he grins to himself, because being this close to Yuuri makes him really, really happy, and having Yuuri hold onto him like this makes him feel even _happier_.

Yuuri lifts his head, and in the dimness of the lamplit bedroom, he almost looks like he’s blushing, funnily enough.  “I have you to thank for that,” he says softly, and he drops his gaze for a moment, then lets go of Viktor, and oh, that’s too bad, he only just hugged him—

But then Yuuri’s hand tentatively cups his cheek, and then Yuuri leans closer, and _holy shit wait what is happening here_ , and then Yuuri plants a shy little kiss to the tip of his nose before he squeaks, ducks away, and quickly tucks his head under Viktor’s chin, and if he wasn’t before, he’s _definitely_ blushing now.

As for Viktor, well…

Viktor is pretty sure he could die happiest man on the planet now.

“Ah,” he manages, unable to keep himself from grinning giddily (and besides, what’s the point of trying to pretend he’s not over the moon right now, when the person who’s only just barely _not_ in his lap is an empath?) as he shifts, leaning back against the headboard with Yuuri still tucked in against his side.  “You’re welcome, anytime, really…”

(Could Yuuri maybe do that again?  For scientific purposes, of course, so Viktor can figure out precisely _how_ thrilled and happy it made him?  Experiments need repetition for credibility, though, so maybe he’d need to do it once or twice or another five hundred times over…?)

“Um, okay, yeah, I’ll… try to remember that?” Yuuri manages, sounding a little bit strangled.  What would it be like to kiss him?  The thought is enough to make Viktor’s heart swell—he would love nothing more than to kiss Yuuri Katsuki until neither of them can catch their breath, to see if he can get him weak in the knees, to whisper the _I love you_ s he’s never managed to say before into Yuuri’s lips.

That sounds nice.  That sounds very nice.  He’s getting ahead of himself, but _wow_.

Yuuri breaks the silence, keeping his face hidden, and Viktor really has to wonder how precise empathic perceptions are, anyway.  Does Yuuri know that Viktor was just thinking about how much he would like to kiss him?

Probably not, given how obtuse his dear Yuuri seems to be when it comes to matters of the heart.  Nonetheless, let it be stated for the record that Viktor definitely wants to kiss him a lot.

“A-anyway,” Yuuri is saying, and he still sounds a little flustered, “um, do you… do you want to start the next movie?”

“Oh,” Viktor says.  That’s right, he came back because they said they’d watch another movie.  Right.  He kind of forgot, with the whole _Yuuri just kissed my nose and he’s adorable_ thing.  “Yes, of course.  Your choice.”

“Right,” Yuuri says faintly, and makes no move to reach for the laptop.

(Even when they eventually do manage to get it started, Viktor has a niggling feeling that neither of them is thinking about the movie very much.  This might have something to do with how he keeps mentally replaying that little kiss every few seconds.) 

(Wow.)

* * *

 

[09:39] Viktor:  
So I just had the best night ever.

[09:40] Christophe Giacometti:  
Oh? ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)  
I have to say I’m a little surprised!  I didn’t think you were gonna get in his pants that fast.

[09:40] Viktor:  
Chris please

[09:41] Christophe Giacometti:  
I know, I know.  Unrealistic expectations.  
So, what DID happen?  More “unfairly attractive” dancing with you?

[09:41] Viktor:  
He KISSED ME on the NOSE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ♡＾▽＾♡

[09:42] Christophe Giacometti:  
…Wow, you really do have it bad.

[09:42] Viktor:  
He’s just so beautiful, Chris  
♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

[09:43] Christophe Giacometti:  
Yes, I remember you mentioning that before.  I can’t wait for the wedding, I want to meet him again!

[09:43] Viktor:  
Yes!!  The wedding!!!  I can’t wait either!!!!!! ♡♡♡♡♡

 

* * *

Court is _exhausting_.

Mentally, physically, emotionally.  Okay—maybe not physically, but the overall exertion of having to juggle so much information and to use magic for so long on top of keeping up façades and careful pretenses and masks still leaves Yuuri as tired as a workout Minako-sensei might have given him, so it might as well be physical, too.

And even though court is officially over, the pretending isn’t.  He keeps his chin high and back straight, walking with grace and purpose as he exits the chamber; he can’t even show his tiredness until he’s in private, among good company.  Any sign of weakness can get pounced on, here more than ever.  The court of Queen Nikiforova is a dangerous place.

Frankly, more than a little of him wants to go to Viktor’s rooms, to settle down and snuggle up with him like they did last night, but he can’t.  For one thing, Viktor isn’t in his rooms anyway, considering that he’s accompanying his mother to her study to talk business for a while, and for another, it’s just—it’s _embarrassing_ , being so clingy and needy.  Really, what must Viktor think of him, the way he was all over him last night?

…And then he remembers the burst of excitement and giddy happiness when he kissed Viktor (even though it wasn’t even a real kiss, just a quick peck on his nose), the way it was like a firework just went off inside Viktor’s chest, setting his heart on fire with singing gold—

What must Viktor think of him, indeed.

Anyway, the biggest reason he can’t go find Viktor, aside from those other two pretty big reasons, is that he has other things to do right now.  It’s not _that_ late in Hinomoto right now—about an hour before midnight—and he has a call to make, one that he doesn’t really want to do from within the castle.

Which is why he’s not heading back to his rooms for a nap, either.  No, instead he’s taking an umbrella and glaring a little bit at the darkening, grey, windy sky ( _honestly_ , there are days when he really wishes he’d learned elemental magic instead, just so this wouldn’t _happen_ ) as he gathers his robes in front of him to keep them from getting muddy as he hurries across the main courtyard.  The umbrella only seems to be keeping his head dry, thanks to the wind, but at least his glasses remain water-free, which is probably the most important thing.

By the time he gets to Kenjirou’s apartment, he’s feeling a little disgruntled and more than a little soggy.  But the apartment holds the promise of a hot cup of jasmine tea within, ready and waiting for him as of two minutes ago, according to Kenjirou’s text. 

Honestly, Kenjirou is a lifesaver.  What would Yuuri do without him? 

…Yuuri thinks he might be turning into his mother, but at this point he’s starting to feel that he wouldn’t know what to do without tea to get him through the day.

When he finally smiles, shows a quick flash of identification to the guards posted around the Hinomotan Embassy compound—a formality, really, because he’s made sure to know all the Hinomotans here by face if not by name, and they’re all familiar enough with him—and presses the buzzer outside the door labeled _Minami Kenjirou, Ambassador_ , he’s ready to collapse, preferably with a blanket.  Kenjirou opens the door almost instantly.

“Hi, Yuuri!” he says with his usual warm cheer, waving Yuuri inside quickly and closing the door against the blustery rainstorm.  Vaguely, Yuuri remembers it being overwhelming when they first met—Kenjirou was just _so chipper!_ —and wonders at himself for having changed so much that Kenjirou’s constant stream of lively Hinomotan chatter is a comfort now.  “Gosh, you’re all wet!  If you want to hang up those robes by the heater, there’s a coatrack nearby, and, um… you’re taller than me, so I don’t know if anything I have will fit you, but…”

Touched, Yuuri shakes his head.  “It’s alright,” he assures him quickly, smiling at his fellow countryman with a rush of fondness.  “It’s mostly just my outer robe, anyway.  Thank you for the offer, though, Kenjirou; I appreciate it.”

“Oh, of course!” Kenjirou says, practically bouncing on his feet.  “Here, I can take your robe to the coatrack—your tea is on the table in the kitchen, if you want to go get it in the meantime!”

He’s already reaching for it, so Yuuri really has no option other than to shrug the robe off and hand it over with a slightly bewildered “Thank you,” letting Kenjirou scamper off to hang it by the heater while he heads to the kitchen in search of the promised tea.  There’s two cups waiting by a lovely porcelain teapot, all three covered in matching delicate floral swirls, and Yuuri pauses to admire how lovely they are before he pours himself a cup.  Jasmine-scented steam drifts up, and he breathes it in deeply, closing his eyes.  It’s calming.

He's barely taken a careful sip when Kenjirou breezes in, humming cheerfully, and pours his own cup.  “So,” he says.  “You want to call Princess Katsuki and Lady Okukawa?  I can give you my most secure channel—do you want me to stay or should I leave, once we get the call going?”

“You should probably stay,” Yuuri says after a moment of thought.  “It’s not a personal call; I could make that from the castle without much problem.  I… mostly need advice from Minako-sensei about what I told you about, last week, and depending on what she tells me, I might have to talk to you about it anyway, so it’s probably just going to be easiest if you’re there from the start.”

“Okay!” Kenjirou chirps.  “No problem!  Do you want to start now, or finish our tea first?  Are they expecting us?”

Yuuri glances at his phone to get the time—three minutes before when he told Mari he’d try to call.  “We can start now,” he decides.  “I told Mari I’d be in touch around now, so she should be ready.  She would have told me if she’s running late.”

“Alright!” Kenjirou agrees.  He takes his tea and gestures for Yuuri to follow him.  “We can sit in the study, I usually do calls in there.  It’s where I’ve set up the video camera, anyway.”

“Sure,” Yuuri says, taking his own tea and leaving the kitchen after Kenjirou. 

They settle down in Kenjirou’s study, a cozy affair covered in bright colors and traditional prints.  A plush throw is draped over the back of the upholstered sofa opposite the desk, and Yuuri wraps it around himself as he settles into the corner of the couch while Kenjirou sets up the call.

Pretty soon, it’s ringing.  Luckily, Mari doesn’t leave them to awkwardly languish in silence as it drones on and on, instead answering on the second ring.  She’s in her own private sitting room, sharing her couch and computer with Minako-sensei, and as always when he video-calls home, Yuuri feels a pang at the familiar outlines.  After the wedding, he’s going to go home for a visit.  And he’ll bring Viktor along, too, if he can.  Maybe even Yuri, if he allows it.

“Hey, squirt,” Mari greets with a wave of her hand.  “And Ambassador Minami.  It’s a pleasure to see you.”

“You can’t go all formal on him after calling me _squirt_ ,” Yuuri complains lightly, already feeling more at ease just seeing her face.

“I outrank you, so I can do what I want,” Mari answers, her favorite childhood refrain, and she cracks a little grin at him before adding, “ _Pipsqueak_.”

Kenjirou very politely hides a laugh by sipping his tea and doing his best not to choke on it too loudly instead.

“Why are you like this,” Yuuri sighs, but he’s fighting a losing battle against a smile, borne of the comfort from simple, familiar routines like playful bickering with his sister.  Familiarity gets him in the worst way.

“It’s what older siblings are for,” Mari answers, droll as ever, and he just snorts.  Minako-sensei, however, nudges Mari.

“Hey, kids, not to disrupt the touching name-calling going on here,” she says dryly, “but we’re on business right now, aren’t we?”

Both Yuuri and Mari sober immediately.  Yuuri bites his lip nervously, then sighs.

“Ah,” he says.  “Well.  Sort of.  Nothing official.  I just—I need advice, Minako-sensei, and I didn’t know where to turn…”

“Advice, huh?” Minako-sensei says, raising an eyebrow, and Mari snickers.

“What I’m wondering is why you’re so paranoid you’re using official private channels to ask about your love life,” she grins.  “Are you _that_ worried about Prince Viktor finding out that—”

 _“What?!_ ”  It’s not a screech, Yuuri tells himself, but even he has to admit it came pretty close.  “No, no no no _no no_ , that is _not_ what I’m calling about—who even _told_ —wait—I’m not admitting to—”

Mari sighs a fake-disappointed sigh and then grins a very genuinely unrepentant grin.  “Yuuri, _please_ ,” she says.  “We practically _raised_ Phichit for a few years there.  You think Mom isn’t still calling him to make sure he eats?”

Yuuri stares at her, horrified, and fervently ignores the way his face is getting hotter.  “He _told_ you?”

“I’m missing something,” Kenjirou whispers.  Yuuri ignores him for the moment.

Mari shrugs.  “To be fair,” she says, “you never made him promise not to tell anyone, and also he was a little drunk.  And I asked.”

Yuuri gapes.  “You did _what?_ But Mari—okay.  Okay.  You know what?  That’s—that’s fine, I don’t—it’s fine, it doesn’t matter, I’m—it isn’t—I don’t mind.  Okay.  Cool.  Whatever.  You know.  Okay.  Anyway, that’s actually _not_ what I called to talk to you about…”

Mari’s eyebrows shoot up.  “It’s not?  For real?”

“You look worried,” Minako-sensei interjects.  She looks tired, which is probably why she’s not saying that much—it must have been a long day.  A twinge of guilt tugs at Yuuri for keeping her up late, even though he knows she usually is up later than this anyway.  “What’s wrong?”

Pushing all embarrassing thoughts of Viktor and cuddling and blanket forts and kisses aside, Yuuri presses his lips together and takes a deep breath, smelling the jasmine steam again.  Right.  The entire point of this call.

“Something feels… off,” he says carefully.  “In court.  I don’t know how to describe it.  It’s like—Minako-sensei, you know when you can feel someone has bad intentions toward you, it’s like that malicious feeling in the pit of your stomach and it grows when they are close to you or they’re thinking about it or whatever?”

Minako-sensei nods, her eyes narrowing.  “Do you think someone has bad intentions toward you?” she asks sharply.  “Have you told anyone?  Your Viktor, or the Queen, or the head of security or the head of the spies, _anyone_ —it’s serious, Yuuri, I don’t want you disregarding threats—”

But Yuuri is shaking his head.  “No, no, that’s not what I’m saying,” he interjects, glancing at Kenjirou, but he’s quiet, just watching the exchange with rapt attention.  “It’s _like_ that feeling, but a lot broader and a lot… I don’t know how to describe it.  It’s _constant_.  There’s none of the fluctuations in it, it just feels _bad_.  I don’t know what would make that _happen_ , Minako-sensei, I don’t understand!  Is it a lot of people all having generally bad intentions?  I don’t understand, but it’s scaring me.  I—I feel like there’s something big happening, but I don’t have any actual evidence for it, and I just—I don’t _know_.”

Minako-sensei is leaning forward, frowning, her fingers tapping her chin thoughtfully.  “Tell me what you feel, in as much detail as you can.  This is not good, Yuuri.”

“I—you think so?” Yuuri asks anxiously.  “I was worried it was just me being paranoid all the time.  I’ve never felt anything like it before.  It’s like… um, okay.  How should I describe it, ah…  It’s like—I almost feel _sick_ from it, it’s really similar to anxiety honestly?  But I _know_ it’s not, it’s different, because it goes away if I shut off my magic, plus it doesn’t feel like my own anxiety.  But it just—it makes me feel like something awful is hanging over my head and I don’t know what.”

Minako-sensei’s frown deepens.  “When and where does it happen?”

“In court, the most,” Yuuri answers immediately. “I feel like it—it gets _worse_ , around some people, maybe?  But there’s always so many people so close together in court that I can’t really pin down _who_ , exactly.  And sometimes I get it outside of court, too, and I have no idea if it’s just… me?  Or if there’s someone nearby I shouldn’t trust?  But I haven’t been able to figure out a pattern, and Minako-sensei, it’s so _frustrating_ , it feels like there’s this huge puzzle right in front of me and I can’t turn on the lights to let me see enough to put the pieces together, and I just—”

He break off, shaking his head, and takes a long, slow sip of his tea to calm down.  Minako-sensei, shaking her head on the screen, purses her lips, then sighs.

“I don’t like the sound of this,” she says.  “How much do you trust what you feel?”

Yuuri bites his lip.  “I’ve been feeling it for a while,” he admits.  “Pretty much since I got here, I think, but I’ve only now started realizing that this is what I’ve been feeling, and it wasn’t just really bad anxiety all the time.”

He glances at Kenjirou again, unsure how much about his anxiety he can or should say in front of him, but Kenjirou is still sitting, quiet and respectful, letting them talk without making any of his own interjections.  Yuuri wonders if he knows how much he appreciates that.

“Something might be going on in the heart of Ruthenia’s court,” Minako-sensei muses.  “You should talk to the Queen about this.”

Yuuri hesitates.  “You… think so?  What do I even tell her, though?  ‘Hi, Queen Nikiforova, I have absolutely no evidence and no clues indicating where to start investigating anything, but there’s something bad going on, just thought I’d let you know’ doesn’t sound particularly… credible.  Encouraging.  Useful.  Any of that.”

“You should let her be the judge of that,” Mari speaks up.  The teasing levity is gone from her eyes, replaced by solemn concern.  “Just give her all the facts you have, just tell her you think she and everyone else on her side should be on their guard.  And _you_ should be careful, too, Yuuri.  Don’t go places alone, make sure you’re protected at all times, and make sure you can _trust_ the people who you surround yourself with.  I don’t want anything to happen to you, little brother.”

“I’m being careful,” Yuuri promises immediately.  “I won’t do anything reckless, I promise—I mean, would I ever?  _Me?_ ”  He laughs, but it comes out a little hollow, because this is all real and something big _is_ at play, and it’s not just his own fears like he’d kind of been hoping it was.  “…What if,” he starts, and then hesitates, because is this even a thought that’s worth voicing?  But Mari and Minako-sensei are staring at him now, curious, so he has no choice other than to finish it out.  “What if I waited too long?  Thinking it had to be nothing and dismissing it and thinking it was just—just all in my head?  What if it’s already too late to stop whatever ‘it’ is?”

“I don’t think it’s too late,” Mari offers.  When Yuuri still looks unconvinced, she sighs, running a hand through her hair.  “But if it is, then it’s simple, Yuuri.  If it’s too late to stop the building or whatever from crumbling, then we just do what we can to pick up the pieces.”

Yuuri bites his lip, nods, and drops his gaze.  That answer is realistic and pragmatic and makes _sense_ , but it’s—it’s not that reassuring, because he just—he _has_ to keep the “building or whatever” from crumbling in the first place, it’s what he’s supposed to do, that’s why he’s _here_ and it’s just—that’s what the Queen herself asked of him, and—

“Um, Princess Katsuki?  Lady Okukawa?”  It’s Kenjirou, piping up for the first time in the call, and that’s enough of a surprise to get Yuuri to raise his head.  “I know we’re all talking about being careful, but, um, if I may ask?  What kinds of concrete things should I do to support Prince Yuuri, and to help him with all of this?  Is there anything I need to know or do?  I just want to help, if there’s anything I can do…”

“Keep your eyes open,” Minako-sensei advises.  “Yuuri is like our canary in the coal mine here—”

“—But without any injury of any sort coming to him,” Mari interjects quickly.

“Yes, he’s our immortal, immune canary,” Minako-sensei agrees.  “What we basically have here is a warning that _something_ is wrong, and also a hint that it’s a really damn big something, but we don’t know what.  So the best thing any of us can do for now, but _especially_ you two, is to keep your eyes open and try and figure out what’s happening.  But be _careful_ , you hear me?”

“Loud and clear, yes ma’am!” Kenjirou chirps, firing off a quick salute.

“And Yuuri,” Mari adds, levelling a flat look into the camera.  “Talk to Prince Viktor and the Queen.  I’m serious.  They should know about this, too.”

“Okay,” Yuuri says softly.  “I don’t think I can tell them in the palace, though—you know the saying about walls and ears.  And especially with all the secret passages here, I just… I don’t know how much I trust the security of anything like this, not in that palace, not when I don’t know who’s making me feel this way.”

“Mm,” Mari sighs.  “Well, you can get Prince Viktor out of the grounds easily enough, from what you’ve told me—maybe even invite him over there, to Minami’s?  I don’t know.  But if you can get to him, I’m sure he’s got private ways of talking to his mother.”

“Let yourself rely on others,” Minako-sensei advises.  “You don’t have to do everything alone, Yuuri.  You just have to find the people you can trust.”

Yuuri sighs.  “Right,” he mumbles.  “I’ll … try to do that.”

“It’ll be okay,” Mari says, doing her best to reassure him, and Yuuri attempts to smile for her sake.  He doesn’t want to make her worry about him unduly; she’s got enough on her plate as it is.  So he just has to hide that sinking feeling in his stomach, that’s all.

He just can’t tell her that he doesn’t quite believe her.

* * *

 

[19:23] Yuuri:  
are you busy this weekend?

[19:24] Vitya:  
It depends!  What time this weekend?

[19:24] Yuuri:  
saturday afternoon? after kenjirou and i get back?

[19:24] Vitya:  
Ah, I’m not busy immediately in the afternoon, but I do have something at 17:30.  
That might be cutting it a little close.  Why, what did you have in mind?

[19:25] Yuuri:  
oh, i can leave the orphanage early then maybe  
i was thinking we could go out maybe, just me and you? to the botanical gardens or something?

[19:25] Vitya:  
!!!!  
Well, I would love to do that again too!!!  Okay, maybe… How’s this:  
If we meet up around 15:00, we could go spend an hour or so at the gardens before I have to go.  I know it’s short, but given that you spend mornings at the orphanage and my evening is booked…?

[19:26] Yuuri:  
yes that sounds great to me!! :)

[19:26] Vitya:  
Wonderful!!!! (★^O^★)  
Are you still at Ambassador Minami’s place?

[19:27] Yuuri:  
yes, but i’ll be coming back soon, don’t worry!!

[19:27] Vitya:  
Okay!  Are you walking back?  It’ll be dark soon.

[19:28] Yuuri:  
yes, but i’ll get one of the embassy guards to walk with me.

[19:28] Vitya:  
Sounds good!  See you soon!

[19:29] Yuuri:  
i will!! see you soon, vitya! ♥

[19:30] Vitya:  
♡´･ᴗ･`♡

* * *

“Katsudon,” Yuri announces, imperiously slamming the door open and marching into the sitting room.  Katsudon barely looks up, which is irritating, because Yuri knows he slams doors a lot, but really, there’s _no_ way the effect has worn off this much.  “I’m bored.”

“Nice to meet you, bored, I’m Phichit!” a cheery voice says, and Yuri jumps before he realizes Katsudon is on the phone.  Of _course_ he’s on the phone. 

Well, that’s a more acceptable reason for him to have ignored Yuri’s dramatic entrance.  Seriously, how often does he get to do that?  Not every sitting room has slammable doors!

Anyway, that’s beside the point, because apparently Katsudon is on the phone with _an absolute motherfucking tool_.

“Oh, go fuck yourself,” he tells the mysterious disembodied voice of this “Phichit” character, and Katsudon actually _laughs_.

So does Phichit.  “Nah, I’m good, thanks,” he says, chipper and undeterred.  “So!  Yuuri, that’s Prince Plisetsky, right?  The one you’ve told me about?”

Yuri whips around.  “You talk about me to people?” he asks incredulously, pinning Katsudon with a stare that demands answers, dammit.

Katsudon’s eyes widen.  “Phichit,” he hisses.  “Are you _trying_ to get me murdered in my sleep?”

The voice on the other end of the line laughs again.  “Now, now,” he says, “you and I both know that I taught you better than to let anyone get the jump on you, even in your sleep.  If you could fight _me_ off some of the time, you can definitely take him!”

Wait.  Phichit taught Katsudon to fight? 

That means…

“So _you’re_ the shadow assassin he always talks about!” he blurts, striding to the couch to sit down next to Katsudon and stare at the phone as if Phichit can somehow sense the magnitude of his glare, distance notwithstanding.

“Aww, Yuuri,” Phichit sings.  “You talk about me?  I thought the only person you ever talk about is—”

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” Yuuri squeaks.  He’s turning red.  Oh, lord, if this is more romantic drama, Yuri is going to stick his head out a window and _scream_.

“If you were going to finish that sentence with anybody other than Viktor,” he starts, but apparently he doesn’t need to finish, because Katsudon squeaks again, eyes wide, and buries his face in his hands, while Phichit bursts out laughing.  _Busted_.

“Wh—what are you talking about?” Katsudon frets, wringing his hands like some kind of little old grandmother.  “I don’t know what you mean, Prince Yuri—”

“Okay, why the fuck do you still call me that,” Yuri huffs.  “I call you _Katsudon_ , not ‘Prince Yuuri’.  That just sounds weird.  Why do you keep doing that?  It’s weird!  Like, am I supposed to feel bad for not using your actual title, is that what you want?”

“What?” Katsudon asks, and at least this time he’s not squeaking.  “What?  No, no, that’s the opposite of what—I kept calling you by your title because I wasn’t sure if you wanted the familiarity to go both ways!  I guess I should’ve made it clearer, I’m sorry.  So, um, what… what _would_ you like me to call you?”

Yuri rolls his eyes.  “You can call me Yura, like your Viktor does.”

“ _His_ Viktor?” Phichit asks, and lets out something close to a cackle.

“Ugh, yeah,” Yuri says, resisting the urge to roll his eyes again.  “Literally everyone knows it.  I can’t believe you haven’t put it together yet, Katsudon—seriously, work on that.  I thought you were supposed to be _perceptive_.”

“Baby Yuri, you and I are going to be friends already, I can feel it,” Phichit says cheerily.

Yuri scowls darkly, debates whether telling a shadow assassin _I’m going to kill you_ would sound really stupid, and settles for “Don’t _ever_ call me that again.”

Phichit laughs.  Does _nothing_ get this guy to stop being an endless font of cheer?  The hell?  “Okay, okay, Tiny Yuri.  Anyway, Yuuri, what was I saying?  I was saying something important-ish, I think?”

“You were telling me about the thing you did after finishing up the contract last week,” Katsudon answers, relaxing again.

“Contract?” Yuri asks, perking up a little.  Is this about … assassin work?

“Classified,” both Katsudon and Phichit say immediately.  “Sorry, Yura!” Katsudon adds. “It’s a safety and accountability thing; unless it’s allowed by the commissioner, guild assassins can’t say who went to do which job or anything.  It makes them targets for revenge sometimes, so for everyone’s safety they keep it strictly secret which assassin did which mission.”

That makes sense, Yuri supposes.  Kind of lame because he doesn’t get to hear any cool stories, but whatever.  “Okay,” he sighs, slumping back on the cushions again.  “Then I’m still bored.”

“Well, Tiny Yuri, if you want to hear a story about how I accidentally stole a trained war elephant—why _anyone_ trains war elephants in this day and age I don’t know, wouldn’t a tank be more effective?—then you can stay put and I can tell you,” Phichit chirps.

“Wait,” Katsudon says, a little bit incredulous.  “You—you definitely didn’t mention that part.”

 “How the hell do you _accidentally_ steal an elephant?” Yuri demands.  He kicks off his shoes and tosses his feet up over Katsudon’s lap, making himself comfortable, because that story sounds… kind of interesting, yeah.  Just a little.  “And stop fucking calling me _tiny!”_

“I didn’t mention it because I hadn’t _gotten_ there yet, Yuuri!” Phichit laughs.  “As for you, Little Yuri, if you and Yuuri stop interrupting me, I’ll tell you.”

“No, no, hold on,” Yuuri interrupts, and Yuri frowns at him.  “You’re telling me that on the way back from an assignment you _not only_ spent every penny you just earned at a bakery, but _also_ stole an _elephant?_ ”

“What can I say?” Phichit asks.  He sounds like a fucking drama queen.  “I live an exciting life, Yuuri.”

“Why would you spend all your money at a _bakery?”_ Yuri asks, shaking his head in disbelief.  “I can think of so many cooler things to do.  Like, _honestly_.”

Yuuri sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, all long-suffering and whatnot.  Maybe his friendship with this Phichit guy explains how he’s gotten so incredibly accustomed to Viktor and his… Viktorness.  “He bought out the entire bakery to feed the homeless people on the streets outside because he was in a good mood and is also a very nice person, but I—I don’t know how the elephant comes into this.”

“Hush, I’m _getting_ there,” Phichit sighs.  “For the record, the bakery thing was very fun and very rewarding and you should all try it sometime.  _Anyway_ , the elephant thing was actually kind of a consequence of the bakery thing, and I swear it wasn’t my fault—oh, by the way, on that note, does either of you have any idea how to care for an elephant?  She won’t leave me alone now and I don’t—I don’t really know what to do with her—”

“You accidentally stole her!” Katsudon exclaims.  “Shouldn’t you _return_ her?”

“She didn’t want to go back!” Phichit defends.  “And when she looked at me with those _eyes_ I couldn’t make her, Yuuri, you have to understand, doesn’t Makkachin do this to you sometimes, you just can’t—you can’t say no and you have to give out more treats even if you already did that twice today, right?”

Yuri stares at the phone incredulously.  This guy is a _shadow assassin_ who’s weak for _puppy eyes?_   Or—well— _elephant eyes?_   What the fuck?  He quirks his eyebrows and scoffs.  “Don’t you like, kill people for a living?”

Phichit lets out a cry in defense.  “That doesn’t mean I don’t have a _heart!”_

Yuri frowns.  Then he shifts his gaze to Katsudon.

“You have weird friends.”

“I guess it makes sense that we’re friends, then,” Katsudon answers, and his smile is so disarmingly innocent that it takes Yuri a full second to realize that Katsudon just called him weird.

“Hey!”  He sits up and smacks Katsudon in the shoulder.  “ _You’re_ weird!”

“You’ve mentioned that before, yes,” Katsudon agrees congenially.  The corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles again, looking at Yuri with unexpected fondness for a moment before he drops his gaze back to the phone.  “Anyway.  I’m _still_ waiting to hear how you ‘accidentally’ stole an elephant, Phichit.”

There’s a laugh from the other end of the line.  “Yeah, yeah,” Phichit says.  “The short version of it is that I took a shortcut that involved going through her pen and she smelled the bread in my pocket and decided she wanted some.”

“Phichit,” Katsudon sighs.

“What’s the long version?” Yuri asks, idly twirling a lock of his own hair around his finger.  “How’d the accidental theft part work?”

There’s a short pause.

“ _Well_ , funny that you should ask that,” Phichit says.  “So, uh, I was walking through this pen, right, and maybe I should’ve been paying more attention, but I didn’t think much of it because y’know, elephants aren’t _super_ common in the middle of the city here but it’s not like they’re unheard of or anything.  So I didn’t think she was gonna _do_ anything, I was just gonna phase through the gate on the far side of her pen and be on my way…”

“Please tell me this isn’t going where I think it’s going,” Katsudon mutters.

“…Only she kind of ambled up behind me and nudged me in the back pocket because that’s where the bread was, and that was right as I started to do it, and I accidentally phased her through with me…”

Katsudon presses his face into his hands.  “Phichit Chulanont.”

“Katsuki Yuuri, don’t you of all people _dare_ try to lecture me on obliviousness,” Phichit shoots back immediately.  

From the way Katsudon immediately squeaks and his ears turn pink, Yuri grudgingly admits that he has a modicum of respect for this guy.  Anyone who successfully needles Katsudon is alright in his book. 

“The point is, I ended up outside the pen with the elephant and she looked so happy when she realized she got out that I hesitated about pushing her backwards to put her back in.  And then when I tried, she actually got so sad, like, she was refusing to walk back that way, so I didn’t really know what to do, because I can do a lot of stuff but I’m not going to shadow enchant an elephant, so I was just like, okay then, and I started walking away, but then she started _following_ me, so, uh…  I have an elephant now?”

“ _Phichit_ ,” Katsudon groans.  Then he looks up, his head tipping to one side curiously as he looks at his phone.  “…So what’s her name?  Can I meet her sometime?”

“I haven’t named her yet!” Phichit says. “But you can absolutely meet her, she’s _my_ war elephant, not a guild pet or something.  We don’t have communal pets, unless you count the nameless cat that sleeps in the kitchen who everyone feeds.”

“What kind of cat?” Yuri asks, perking up again.

“The cute kind!” Phichit answers, as if that’s an actual answer, dammit.

“That’s really unhelpful, thanks,” Yuri rolls his eyes.  “ _All_ cats are cute.”

“That’s true,” Phichit agrees congenially. “Yuuri, this is a good one.  Keep him.”

Katsudon just laughs, the jerk, as if ‘keeping’ Yuri is any sort of option on the table.  “Whatever you say, Phichit.  You know, you still didn’t mention how you know she’s a _war_ elephant, not just … an elephant, I guess?  Does she have a saddle and whatnot?”

“Oh boy,” Phichit sighs.  “Okay, that’s _another_ hell of a story, and the guild master might be a little mad at me about that, actually, but I swear to god I did not mean to knock any buildings down and she didn’t either, it honestly wasn’t her fault—”

“You did _what?!”_

“It was like, a tiny-ass shed!” Phichit protests.  “And nobody got hurt or anything!  Hush, Yuuri, it’s all good, it got put back together really fast, we’re fine!”

It’s around right now, listening to this story that gets more ridiculous by the second and then listening to Katsudon’s mild hysteria in response to each plot twist, that Yuri realizes with an odd sinking feeling in his stomach that this Phichit guy and Viktor would get along _way_ too well.  They must _never_ be allowed to be friends.

“He’s always like this, isn’t he?” he asks Katsudon, frowning.

Katsudon gives him the most long-suffering nod he’s ever seen in his life and sighs deeply.

“Always,” he says, but his voice is so impossibly fond that Yuri can’t bring himself to say the snarky comeback on the tip of his tongue.  “Always, no doubt about it.”

“Aww, Yuuri,” Phichit teases.  “I love you too!”

“Don’t let him become friends with Viktor, or we’ll _all_ regret it,” Yuri warns, and with that he flops back on the couch.  At least he’s not _quite_ as bored anymore.

* * *

The secret passages in the palace can get really confusing at times.  But if you know them decently well enough (nobody knows them _well_ , as far as Mila knows), they can make great reading nooks, for those times when one just wants to get away from any possibility of human contact.

Right now, she’s just tired and wants to be alone—court is always draining, and she could use some time to herself—so she takes a book and a little blanket to sit on, heads into the currently unoccupied sitting room near the palace entryway, pulls the trick “book” on the shelf, and lets herself into the passage behind it when the shelf swivels.  There’s always a little thrill to coming back here, even though it’s not against any rules (there are rules about passages in private areas, but this isn’t one of them).  Maybe it’s just the concept of secret passages in general.

Anyway, she takes a leisurely walk until she gets to one of her favorite spots, a nook behind one of the decorative grilles in the north library.  It’s a generally secluded room—there’s nobody in it at all right now, as far as she can see—and this grille is in a corner, inside one of the library’s study alcoves, but she loves curling up behind it, like it’s a bubble keeping her totally secluded from the outside world.

Humming, she spreads her blanket out and sits down on it, then pulls out her book.  Another nice thing about the grille is that it lets in plenty of sunlight, giving her more than enough light to read by, and all she has to do is twist it into the shape of a little sun for herself to have the perfect reading lamp.

See?  This is why light-twisting is the best one of the schools of magic out there.  It’s so handy, _and_ it’s beautiful, especially when she puts in effort and doodles with it or sculpts something out of sunbeams.

But she’s still more in the mood for a book right now anyway, so she settles in comfortably and begins to read.

It hasn’t been all that long, though, when voices approach.  Mila frowns—her initial reaction is to leave, because she doesn’t _want_ people around right now, even if they _are_ in the library and don’t know she’s here, but something makes her hesitate.

“…deals with Vespuccia have me deeply unsettled,” someone is saying.  A moment’s thought reveals that that’s Lord Petrov’s voice, and Mila quickly snuffs out her ball of sunlight, letting it flow back to its natural streams through the grille.  Just to be safe, she scoots into the shadows too, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping.  “I don’t like how much she seems to be caving to their demands—has she no respect for the honor of Ruthenia?”

“My friend, I have nothing but wholehearted agreement with you,” Lord Ivanovich’s voice says, and as luck would have it, the two of them sit down at the table in the alcove right outside Mila’s grille.  She holds her breath and scoots further into the shadows, _definitely_ not wanting to be seen now.  Are they discussing the Queen?  Did they come here to have this talk in private?

“That … fellow you found,” Petrov says, voice low.  “If _Her Majesty_ decides that her ‘thawing relationships’ policy is more important than our national prestige and signs those damn accords, I think we should go through with the plan.  This is getting out of hand.  You’re sure your man is up to the task?”

This… sounds incriminating.  Mila holds her breath.  What task?  What plan?

Damn!  If only her phone wasn’t dead—not for the first time ever, she curses her laziness in leaving the charger in her room all day.  This sounds like something that ought to be recorded, to be analyzed later and possibly used as evidence for—for _something_ —but of course, no, she can’t.

“Quite sure,” Ivanovich answers smoothly.  “He’s the best of the best.  Frankly, I’m just amazed we found him and _kept_ him on our side for this long.  A man of his talents, why, he could be out there making history in the academic _or_ practical field of blood magic, but he’s willing to forgo all that to work with us.  Truly remarkable.”

Blood magic, displeasure with the Queen, and some kind of “plan”.  This is sounding more and more ominous by the minute.  Mila bites her lip.  What exactly is she overhearing here?  It’s—it sounds pretty bad, but is it possible that she’s misinterpreting something?  What’s going on?

Petrov lets out a low bark of laughter.  “Well, well, I’m not complaining,” he says.  “The Queen needs some sort of intervention before she runs this country into the ground!  She thinks she’s a moderate, but she acts just like her damn father and pretends none of us will notice.  It’s _disrespectful_ , is what it is, I’m telling you.”

“I know,” Ivanovich sighs. “I don’t think either of the Nikiforovs respect us, simply because we disagree with them.  Funny, don’t you think?  After all, we’ve been around longer than they have.  I daresay we’ve got a better idea of how Ruthenia could be, and how it _should_ be, than those bleeding-heart idealists.  I worry for our country’s future, with Crown Prince Viktor even more than his mother.”

“Well,” Petrov says, and then pauses.  “Well, you know, we might not have to worry about that, after all.  And I think we have a shot at molding Plisetsky to follow us yet.  He’s young and impressionable, all full of bitterness.  We might not have to worry that much, in the end.”

Mila has to press a hand to her mouth to keep herself from gasping aloud.  Alright!  Wow, yeah nope, she was not misinterpreting and assuming the worst!  Whatever these two are planning, it apparently has something to do with keeping Viktor from getting to the throne.  Holy shit. 

“Might not,” Ivanovich agrees.  “Still, before we can make any move, we need to make sure we’re the majority in court.  Svetlana is still in the way…”

Petrov sighs.  “Yes, I know,” he agrees.  “You have a plan for that, too, though, don’t you, Alexei?”

Ivanovich laughs.  “Why, Dmitri,” he drawls, “you know me so well.”

Both of them share another laugh, and then their conversation starts to drift away from the apparent _treason_ to the weather, Ivanovich’s grand-nieces and their new dog, and Petrov’s nephew’s adventures in ice hockey.  Mila isn’t sure whether she should move or not, sitting frozen and wide-eyed in the passage.

So much for her quiet reading nook.

Holy _shit_.

She needs to talk to Viktor.  Or—or maybe the Queen, directly.  The Queen probably should know about this.  Yes.  Okay.  Holy shit.

Creeping away down the passage, Mila tries to calm herself down, taking deep breaths.  She cannot, under any circumstances, reveal that she just overheard _that_ —who knows what they’re planning?  Who _knows_ what they meant by any of it?  She probably can’t trust anyone about it, actually, nobody except for the royal family themselves.

She can’t go to Yura about it, though; he’s too young, and they just want to use him.  He would just be as helpless as she is now.  She should tell him to be careful, maybe.  Viktor definitely should know, of course, considering that whatever they talked about involves him.  But she needs to schedule an audience with the Queen as soon as possible.

Yes.  Okay.  Yes.  That’s her plan.  An audience with the Queen.

Something makes her want to distance herself from all the places she’s been today, so instead of going back the way she came, to the old sitting room, she heads further into the network of passages, making sure to memorize which turns she takes.  She doesn’t go this way as often, and god, getting lost back here would be terrible (the thought of having to wander around, calling for help because she can’t find her way out, makes her cringe, not least because then everyone would know she was in the passageways, and what if Ivanovich and Petrov suspect her of eavesdropping like she had?), so she _has_ to be careful.

Fuck.  She needs to handle this so carefully; this is like court stress times five hundred, and she kind of can’t breathe, and that’s not just because of the stuffiness of the passageways.  Fuck.  _Fuck_.

“I,” she tells herself, “am going to call my girlfriend, when I get back to my stupid room and my stupid phone which _better_ not still be dead, and I am going to tell her that I’m moving and we’re going to run away to be gay together, and that’s all I want out of life.”  She can’t tell Sara what she just overheard, of course, not when it’s so… so sensitive, but talking to Sara _will_ calm her down.

Yes.  Yes.  Good plan, Babicheva. 

She stumbles when her foot catches on the uneven passage floor, bites her cheek to keep herself from letting out a yelp of surprise, and hurriedly catches herself as quietly as she can.  She’s kind of far from the library and its decorative grille now, but she feels pretty paranoid.  It can’t hurt to be careful.

When she finally emerges, in a back hallway near the kitchens, she quickly dusts herself off and decides a walk in the gardens would be a good idea.  She could use some fresh air.

* * *

“Yuuri!  You’re leaving early today, right?” Kenjirou asks, standing in the doorway to the kitchen, and Yuuri turns from the snack prep table to look at him questioningly.  There’s a little girl wrapped around his leg, and Yuuri has to stifle a laugh at how determined she is to cling as Kenjirou attempts to walk across the room.

“I am,” he says.  “Wait, what time is it…?”

“It’s quarter to fifteen,” Kenjirou answers, ruffling her hair.  “When are you heading out again?”

“Ah—I should be going now, actually.  Thank you for reminding me, I lost track of time!”  Yuuri swivels around, finishes piping chocolate in the shape of a smiling bunny onto the last cookie, and looks around for his sweater.  It’s draped over the back of a chair, and he grabs it, pulls it on, and runs his hands through his hair distractedly.  Is he forgetting anything?  No, it doesn’t feel like it, his phone is here and his wallet is here and—

“No problem!” Kenjirou grins.  “Have a nice talk, and I hope you both have fun on your date!”

“Mr. Yuuri’s going on a date?” asks the girl clinging to Kenjirou’s leg—her name is Sofia, Yuuri remembers—with wide eyes.  “With _who?_ ”

Kenjirou lightly boops her nose.  “He’s going on a date with his fiancé, Sofi!  That’s your Crown Prince, remember?  Prince Nikiforov!”

“It’s not a date,” Yuuri starts to protest, but drops it as soon as he sees the way Sofia’s face lights up.  After all… maybe it… maybe it is a date?  He doesn’t know.  Whatever.

“What’s a fee—fi—a fyan-say?” Sofia asks, wrinkling her nose when Kenjirou boops it again, laughing.

“It’s what you call the person you’re engaged to,” Yuuri explains, smiling at her.  “Viktor and I are getting married at the end of this year, so he’s my fiancé, and I’m his fiancé.”

“Ohhhh,” Sofia says, nodding.  “I learned a new word!  Hey, hey, hey, Mr. Kenjirou, I learned a new word!”

“You sure did!” Kenjirou agrees, clapping his hands. “I’m so proud of you!  Hey, Sofi, let’s get out of the way, though.  We don’t want to make Yuuri late for his date!”

Sofia’s little mouth turns into a big round _o_ as she shakes her head, wide-eyed.  “No, no!”  She lets go of Kenjirou’s leg to scamper aside, grabbing his hand to pull him out of the way, too.  “Don’t be late, Mr. Yuuri!  You’ll make your _fyan-say_ sad!”

“I’m going, I’m going!” Yuuri laughs.  “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to be on time, just so he won’t be sad.”

He says his final goodbyes to the two of them, pokes his head into the staff room to let Isma know that he’s leaving, and finally heads out to the street.  It’s a bright, sunny day, and it’s not a very long walk from here to the café where he agreed to meet Viktor before they go to the botanical gardens—

And that thought sobers him quickly, despite the warmth of the sun on his face or the gentle breeze as it tousles his hair.  The day is almost deceptively beautiful, isn’t it?  It’s almost too warm to wear his sweater in the sun, but the shade is still cool, and the wind makes everything perfect, but… under it all, his mind can’t get away from the mess at court.  Out here, that oppressive _bad_ feeling is practically gone, but he knows as soon as he gets back, it’ll return in full force.

Yeah… Mari and Minako-sensei were right.  He has no idea what it means or what to do about it, but the more he thinks about just letting Viktor know, the more relieved he feels.  It’s almost like he never even let himself consider that he didn’t have to do this all alone, didn’t have to carry the weight of everyone on his own, until Minako-sensei explicitly told him to seek help.

…Knowing him, she probably figured that he wouldn’t have thought of that on his own.  Ouch.  He’s really predictable about these things, isn’t he?

Anyway, the café where he’s supposed to meet Viktor is pretty close, less than a ten minute walk from the orphanage.  And since he’s been staring at nothing and thinking about everything while his feet carry him onwards, he’s only around three blocks away.  Good.  He can tell Viktor everything soon.  Even if there will still be the burden of having to figure it out, he won’t be carrying it alone, and that thought is honestly just so incredibly relieving that it’s almost a physical feeling, the loosening of a knot in his chest that he hadn’t even realized was there.

This street is fairly busy at this time of day, with plenty of cars rushing back and forth, though the sidewalks are narrow and somewhat deserted—it’s more of a private business district, this area, and there aren’t a lot of people out and about if they aren’t just passing through like Yuuri is, walking by himself.

Something makes the hair at the back of his neck prickle uneasily, and he bites his lip, walking a little faster.  Maybe he shouldn’t have decided to walk alone today—most days, he doesn’t, either going places with other members of court or a borrowed member of the Royal Guard, but he assumed that since it was such a short walk to that café, and in a good part of town, too, it would be alright…

“Excuse me,” a voice cuts into his thoughts.  “Please, just—just a moment of your time…”

Alarm spikes for a reason Yuuri can’t place, and his guard immediately rises.  There’s a hunched figure in the mouth of an alleyway, wrapped in raggedy clothes that resemble those of every other sad, homeless figure in the streets here, but _something_ feels off.  He doesn’t take a step closer.

“Please,” the figure repeats.  “My daughter… she hasn’t eaten in three days… please… anything would help…”

The wrongness and the unease rise.  Yuuri entertains the thought of giving some money over and fleeing the scene, but even the idea of going closer at all makes him balk; something akin to malice is radiating from the man, and he wants nothing more than to get out of here, because…

 _He’s lying_ , Yuuri realizes.  The man is reaching for him, entreating, begging, but something feels _wrong wrong wrong_ and it’s almost like the court feeling and that’s _bad bad bad bad bad_ —

“Please don’t touch me,” Yuuri says, stepping back, toward the center of the street and away from the mouth of the alleyway.  “I’m not carrying cash, my apologies—”

The wrongness spikes just instants before the man [lunges](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NMIVdTnvfzg).

He grabs Yuuri’s wrist and yanks, hard, and Yuuri is thrown off balance because under the nondescript, waifish disguise, there is hard muscle and more strength than he accounted for.  With a yelp, he stumbles forward directly into a shove that sends him tripping over his own feet, so that they end up switching places, Yuuri in the alleyway and the man blocking his way out.

Shit.

“I told you, I don’t have any cash on me!  But you aren’t after my money, are you?” Yuuri asks, trying to stall for time as he tries frantically to think of how to get out of this.  The vague confidence he can sense from the man in front of him makes him feel like running back further into the alleyway would be a bad idea—he must have an accomplice, and that thought makes Yuuri reach out with his thoughts, groping around further behind him, until he detects not one but _two_ more consciousnesses not too far away, both waiting, both too alert to be uninvolved.

 _Shit_.

“No, not really,” the one in front of him agrees.  He’s dropped the reedy, plaintive tone, and his real voice is much more gravelly, much more in keeping with his frighteningly broad stature now that he’s not hunching his shoulders.  He steps forward, and Yuuri hesitates again.

No, he can’t let himself be driven backwards.  That’d be two people, while there’s only one in front of him.  His only chance is go overpower this man and run back out of the alleyway.

He springs forward, keeping his body low, and feints left, ducking to the right at the last moment and attempting to dash under the man’s arm, but an elbow comes down hard and slams into his back, knocking the wind out of him.  He stumbles and gets kneed in the chest for his trouble, but being doubled over gives him the perfect chance to grab the knife from his boot.

“You’re not getting away that easy, pretty boy,” the man snarls, reaching for him.  “You’re gonna—”

The rest of his words are lost in a yowl of pain when Yuuri’s knife slashes his arm open from wrist to elbow, and Yuuri dances backwards out of reach, ignoring the way his back and chest sting to hell and back and his eyes prickle with tears of pain.  Breathing hurts; this is definitely going to bruise.

The two consciousnesses behind him start to come closer—he can feel the threads of their emotions start to get stronger—and Yuuri stifles a curse.  His best chance to get away, wasted—this is three on one, and he’s already hurting a bit, and these are bad odds, very bad odds.

“What do you want from me?” Yuuri hisses, pretending that he doesn’t know about the two sneaking up on him.  Admitting that he knows they’re there will make them stop caring about the element of surprise, and that means they’ll be way more likely to attack outright—plus, this way, they won’t be expecting anything from him.

“Your pretty little _head_ , Your Highness,” the man in front of him spits.  He draws his own dagger from under his tattered clothes, and Yuuri’s stomach drops.  These men are regular assassins, from the feel of things—so, not shadow assassins, thank god, because he could never hope to fend off three of _those_ —but three of them against one of him? 

“Who sent you?” he presses, taking a little step back. “If you’re going to kill me, at least give me that much.”

A sneer, a laugh.  “You and your Hinomotan sensibilities,” the assassin says, advancing further.  Yuuri takes another step back, painfully aware that he’s losing ground, getting further from the mouth of the alleyway.  Shit, he’s getting too close to the other two!  “You might believe in so much honor, but in Ruthenia, we play by other rules.  _Our_ honor above yours.  You will just be dead—what does it matter to you whether you know why you die or not?”

Another step back.  He needs to attack soon, needs to get out.  This man is basically ignoring the blood dripping from his arm; the knife in Yuuri’s hand seems to be pulsing with energy, thrumming slightly as if it’s waiting for _something_.  He switches from a forward grip to a reverse hold, bringing it up defensively, and eyes the assassin, sizing him up for openings.  He might not be paying attention to his injured arm, but he _is_ favoring it—meaning he’s probably going to expect Yuuri to go for it again.

Well, it’s still his best bet—he could think himself in circles, _he thinks I’ll go here so I’ll go to the other side, but he’d expect me to do that because he knows I know he thinks I’d go to the wounded side, so I should go_ _there instead_ —but when push comes to shove, it’s easier to take advantage of a wound that’s already there than one that isn’t, so…

And he has another advantage—this man doesn’t seem to know he’s fighting an empath.  _Good_.  Even trained assassins aren’t above fear; their training just means they know how to ignore it, how to keep it from crippling them, how to suppress it and act ruthlessly anyway.  But it’s still there, a little current rippling gently far below the surface.  Yuuri reaches for the man’s mind, grabs that thread, and _pulls_.

As the assassin lets out a cry and stumbles back, his eyes widening, Yuuri throws himself forward again, knife flaring out against the assassin’s shoulder.  The hit lands, and the assassin hisses in pain as blood spurts from the wound, running in scarlet rivulets down his arm.  Yuuri presses his advantage and strikes again, pushing forward—they’re almost out of the alleyway, almost, just a few more steps—but this time his blade is parried.  A series of quick slashes rains down and he’s hard pressed to catch all of them, but he’s gaining the upper hand—he’s the better knife fighter and it’s starting to show; he’s faster than the assassin, and the fear in the man’s mind makes him slow, clumsy, and uncertain.

However, in focusing on drawing that fear to the surface, Yuuri makes a critical mistake, one he only realizes he’s made when it’s too late.

_He forgot about the other two._

Suddenly, a gloved fist grabs his hair and yanks him backward with painful force, and he cries out, stumbling backwards as the first assassin lunges forward, his terror draining away like water in a tub when the drain is opened.  Yuuri throws himself backwards and ducks, wrenching his head to the left, but the slice from his dagger comes _far_ too close for comfort, catching his cheek and dragging down almost to his the corner of his mouth. 

Almost immediately, his own blood starts trickling down his face; he can taste the salt and the metallic tang on his lips, but there’s no time to focus on the pain.  Blood drips onto his shoulder, wet and warm, as he wrenches himself away from the new attacker by stomping on their foot as hard as he can, kicking the heel of his boot into their kneecap with as much force as he can muster, and then whirling away from their pain-loosened grip to put his back to a wall, wild-eyed and panting.  His knife feels like it’s on the edge of—of _something_.  What’s going to push it over?

“Feisty one, aren’t you?” the tall woman asks, her eyes cold.  “It gives me no pleasure to do this.  Let us be done with it and we’ll make your death quick and painless.”

The third assassin is visible now, too—shorter than either of his companions, but with a hard look in his face that sends a shiver down Yuuri’s spine.  He turns his attention back to the first two for the moment—they’re closer—but keeps an eye on the third.  He doesn’t seem to have a weapon out (he’s probably an elemental mage, then, Yuuri thinks, mind racing).  Maybe if he can get past him…

“Why are you doing this?” he asks, hedging, trying to recover his breath.  Shit.  _Shit_.  Against all three of them, he won’t stand a chance!  God, if only he had told Viktor sooner—

 _Viktor_ , he thinks, and starts to reach out.  Just a few seconds, please, _please_ …

“Why are you doing this?” he repeats, channeling everything Minako taught him about hiding his use of empathy into his voice.  “ _He_ wouldn’t tell me, but—if you really want me to stand down, at least give me a _reason_ to.  Who wants me dead so badly they couldn’t even wait to slip some poison into my food at a banquet?”

Viktor’s consciousness is far enough away that Yuuri can barely feel it at all.  His empathy works much, _much_ better in close ranges—the amount of energy it takes out of him increases almost exponentially with distance, but he’s dead either way, so he might as well just—

He latches onto Viktor’s mind with the tenacity that comes from utmost desperation and _yanks_.  There’s a link established—tenuous, but there—and he pours everything into it: terror, desperation, pain, helplessness, _help me please help me I don’t want to die here_ —

“I can’t tell you that,” the tall woman says.  “Our employer strictly asked us to keep it from you, despite any pleas of the damned.  My apologies, but you know how the business is.”

The jolt of shock, miniscule and muted by distance as it is, lets him know Viktor felt it, that Viktor must be coming.  He drops the connection and is immediately hit by what feels like a truckload of magical exhaustion, but _no no no not now not now_ he _has_ to focus he can’t die he won’t die not now not like this—he just has to buy time, time for Viktor to head along the path to the orphanage, time for Viktor to find him.  Please, please, _please_ …

“I see,” he wheezes.  Then he launches himself at the third man.  His best hope is to be fast, to eliminate one of his attackers completely, and when he dredges up a last reserve of magic to hit the man with a surge of pure terror, forcing every ounce of the fear in himself into the other’s mind, it forces the man to hesitate for a moment before he attempts to summon elemental fire to flicker around his fingertips, and that second is everything.  The hilt of Yuuri’s knife manages to connect with his temple with a dull _crack_.

The man sways and stumbles back, crumpling to the ground with his flames snuffed out, but the other two are already in motion.  The first one’s dagger descends again, and it’s only by a combination of reflexes and sheer luck that Yuuri catches it on his own blade.  It’s thrumming more insistently now, almost glowing black—sucking in light—in the shade of the alley, but he doesn’t have time to wonder what that means because he suddenly finds himself gasping in pain when a heavy boot smashes a sharp kick directly to his ribs, and suddenly breathing is—breathing is a lot harder, and he lets out a keening cry of pain, involuntarily dropping to his knees.  His side feels like it’s on fire, and every breath _hurts_.

Oh, god, he’s going to die here.

He scrambles away from another kick that the second assassin aims his way, pathetically crawling along the ground, and knows he doesn’t have much time left at all.  This is it.  He’s too late—he should have told Viktor and the Queen sooner, maybe they could’ve figured everything out, stopped this from coming, but it’s too late now and he’s going to die, right here, on the ground like a bug, and the little kids at the orphanage will hear that kind, helpful Mr. Yuuri bled to death not ten minutes after waving them goodbye.

“It’s over,” the first assassin says.  “Stop running.  There’s nowhere for you to hide, pretty boy, just give up.”  He seems to be gloating, twirling his dagger in his hand as he steps forward, slowly, as if he has all the time in the world.  “And since you didn’t seem to like our kind offer to make this fast, we might as _well_ take our time with it, don’t’cha think?  Nice ‘n’ slow.  Not _too_ slow, mind you, because if you scream too much that’d draw too much attention, but I think—”

“Hey,” the second one cuts in.  “Shut up.  None of that talk.  We just want him dead, you idiot.”  She prods Yuuri’s tender side with her foot, and he winces as he flinches away, scrambling out of reach, but not before her boot connects painfully with the side of his head and fiery pain blossoms, the world spinning.  His glasses fall from his face, and she steps on them with a _crunch_ as she raises her leg for another kick.  “Surrender now, and your suffering can end.  You don’t have to keep putting yourself through pain.”

The tears in his eyes make it hard to see, but he manages to crawl past the dazed third assassin, scrabbling backwards on his hands and knees.  Where is his knife—he must’ve dropped it when the second one kicked him, damn him.  He has a feeling some of his ribs must be horribly bruised, if not broken, from the way his breath is rattling painfully in his chest, and they’re both advancing on him now, slow and almost leisurely.  Unprofessional.  A shadow assassin would never waste time like this—

Oh, god, he’s going to die here, and his thoughts are hazy, distracted, disjointed, and they can’t even focus on the people who are about to kill him.  Shadow assassins—his knife, where is his knife, _please_ —

It’s on the other side of the two of them, blacker than night against the stony ground.  No, no, no, he’s really, truly about to die, right here and right now.  Viktor—Viktor must be on his way, and for a moment Yuuri clings desperately to the hope that he’ll be saved (he doesn’t want to die here, _please_ ) but—

His back winds up against a wall.  Ah, so this alleyway… has no outlet.  The second assassin reveals a pistol, raising it to aim at his head, a sight that he’s sure will haunt him.  At least, Yuuri supposes, it won’t be seared into his memory for too long.

Three things happen in very quick succession:

One.  Yuuri closes his eyes, but the shot never comes.

Two.  Something seems to _snap_ , and for a moment everything feels _weird_ , but by the time he opens his eyes, all that remains is shadows flickering on the walls as if they have a life of their own, leaving no real explanation for how the second assassin is suddenly on the ground, crying out, the hand that had been holding the pistol severed from her body so cleanly it almost looks surgical.

Three.  Before he can begin to process any of that, the shadows abruptly settle, and the temperature plummets.

Yuuri lets his head slump forward, the relief rushing through him overpowering anything else.  The adrenaline starts to fade, leaving him more aware than ever of the way his bruised, battered body is screaming at him, and he thinks numbly that shock is starting to set in, because he can’t really… process… anything?

But as it gets colder and colder, Yuuri sighs and closes his eyes again.  He’s too dazed to do anything much, really, and the brick wall is rough against his back as he limply slumps against it, energy gone.  The empathic overuse is already coming back to bite him; he feels sluggish and caught in a fog, like his thoughts are moving through molasses.  It was a near thing—any more use of his magic, and he would probably have knocked himself out on top of completely fucking his own emotions over.

But the assassins aren’t looming over him anymore, and he can worry about the rest later.  Viktor is here, and that means it’s going to be okay.

* * *

[14:58] homobipboa:  
yuuri what happened  
are you okay  
i felt the spell on your knife activate what happened

_[Missed call from homobipboa]_

[15:01] homobipboa:  
fuck  
yuuri please please please get back to me when you can, that spell is only supposed to activate if you’re in mortal danger  
i guess you’re probably unable to talk right now but shit

_[Missed call from homobipboa]_

_[Missed call from homobipboa]_

[15:05] homobipboa:  
please be safe please be safe please be safe

* * *

Viktor doesn’t know the last time he’s run like this—heart pounding in his throat, with denial and raw, unadulterated fear pulsing with every breath.  Fear, not for himself, but for _Yuuri_ , and just the thought of Yuuri, in pain and terrified and helpless and desperate, makes him push himself faster, because no, please, no, he _can’t_ be too late—

He sprints along the street, looking frantically for any sign of his Yuuri.  He has to be somewhere between here and the orphanage, and that’s only an area of a few blocks, so _where is he?_

He thinks, again, of sitting outside the café and waiting, enjoying the peaceful day, so blissfully unaware that something horrible must be happening to Yuuri—thinks, again, of that sudden burst of overwhelming terror and panic and a thousand other things at once, of floundering, of _drowning_ in Yuuri’s plea for help—because surely, that could have been nothing else. 

But the deluge of pain and fear and horror and desperation wasn’t the worst of it.  The worst part was when it all just _vanished_ , so abruptly.  He doesn’t know what that means.  Either Yuuri severed their empathic link as suddenly as he opened it, or…

No.  That isn’t an option.  That _can’t_ be an option.

A small winter storm is gathering, within him and around him, icy power swirling like a cloak.  It fits, he thinks, because there is a frigid hand of fear with a chokehold on his heart, squeezing as it oozes dreadful whispers of _too late, you’re going to be too late, you can’t save him_ that he refuses to listen to.  Yuuri is close by—he _knows_ it!  His empathic range isn’t that large, and if he managed to send Viktor such strong emotions, he must be near.

 _Just a little longer, darling,_ he begs.  _Just hold on a little longer, I’m coming for you._

He doesn’t know what’s happening, doesn’t know why Yuuri was so afraid, so frantic, but when he thinks of reasons Yuuri might be in pain or in danger, a grim suspicion comes to the forefront of his mind—assassination.  They’ve worried about it, but they’ve gotten lax, and this is _his fault_ , because he should have paid more attention!  He promised to protect Yuuri, and yet here they are!  Someone has obviously been watching Yuuri closely enough to know when he’d be alone, and that thought is more than a little unsettling.

But he’ll worry about that _after_ he worries about Yuuri.

A sudden scream from a side street—no more than a tiny alleyway, really—grabs his attention, and without a second thought Viktor races toward it.  It takes him a split second to realize that the shadows around its entrance are flickering, dancing like moths around a flame, and his blood runs cold with something very different from ice elementals.

 _Shadow magic_.  If there’s a shadow assassin after Yuuri…

No.  He’s going to save Yuuri, because he’s _not_ too late, and he’ll keep his promise.  Even if he has to personally fight the head of the Xianese shadow guild himself.

By the time he rounds the corner, the shadows are perfectly still again, as if they’d never moved, but that’s not important, because there are people in the shade here, and one of them is Yuuri, and the rest of them are trying to _hurt_ Yuuri.  Ice surges through Viktor’s veins, pouring out of his very soul, as he raises his hand to guide the stream of raw magic to his bidding.  Everything is frigid, but the cold is an old friend of his.

The first man he sees, holding a knife and staring at his kneeling companion, Viktor viciously slams against the bricks with a wave of ice, pinning him from the neck down in a massive, frozen wall.  It blocks off the rest of the alleyway behind him, cutting off any hope of escape for the assassins, and he readies himself for a counterattack from the second—a counterattack that never comes.

The second assassin, a woman on the ground sobbing and clutching her arm, barely appears to notice he’s here.  She’s too slow, and she gives Viktor all the opening he needs—the arm that had been prepared to summon ice as a barrier between himself and a blade or a spell moves, fingers flaring out from his palm and directing the water in the air to freeze, solidifying around her so that she’s frozen in place, her body cocooned in ice halfway through standing to face him.  Only her face remains free, because he doesn’t want her dead… yet, anyway.

Viktor takes only a moment to reinforce both of their frozen prisons, cold fury rumbling through him like tongues of flame as they hungrily swallow kindling.  These people are _nothing,_ not when he could potentially summon a snowstorm to bury them in his wrath, but there’s no time for that.  Thanks to their own distraction, neither assassin seemed to notice him until it was too late for them, too fixated on—

Yuuri.

Yuuri lies wilted against the wall, limp, limbs splayed loosely around himself like a broken doll.  His eyes are closed, his glasses gone, his face covered in blood.

_No! **No!**_

_Too late too late too late_ , the whispers sing in Viktor’s chest, but he ignores them, dashing forward and ignoring the assassins, ignoring the massive flood of ice blocking the alleyway—it melts, parting around him, and solidifies again—to fall to his knees at Yuuri’s side.

“Yuuri,” he calls gently, gathering his beloved into his arms, cradling him against his chest.  His fingers fumble at Yuuri’s throat, desperate to find a pulse, but before he can, Yuuri shifts against him with a little moan, and relief crashes into Viktor with the force of a ten-ton truck.  “Yuuri?  Yuuri, sweetheart, open your eyes.  Please.  Look at me.  _Please_.”

Yuuri’s eyes flutter open, and he blinks up at Viktor groggily.  “…Your hands are cold,” he mumbles, and Viktor sags, some of his worry dissipating so fast it almost burns in his chest.  “Ow.”

“Yuuri,” he breathes again, closing his eyes and bowing his head, slow and measured, until his forehead presses against Yuuri’s, and he hears Yuuri let out a careful breath.  “Dear heart.  Thank god you’re alive, Yuuri—tell me, my sunshine, where are you hurt?”  The endearments fall from his tongue far too easily, but he’s too shaken to care, too worried to hold back the implicit admission of how much Yuuri means to him. 

Yuuri doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just taking another slow, guarded breath.  The assassins behind them are saying something or other— _let us go_ , it sounds like—but Viktor ignores them for the moment.  His entire world is right here, in front of him, cradled against his heart.

When Viktor opens his eyes again, Yuuri’s are closed, dark eyelashes contrasting starkly with his pale face, but the red blood running down his cheek clashes far more harshly.  Viktor gently wipes it away with his sleeve and sees that thankfully, the cut under it is long but shallow.  More blood wells up almost immediately, and Viktor’s breath catches in his throat.  _I promised to keep you safe…_

“Yuuri?” he prods.  Yuuri lifts one hand and brings it up to stroke Viktor’s jaw, a delicate, featherlight caress, with his eyes still closed.

“I hoped you’d save me,” he sighs.  “Vitya.”

And here Yuuri is, thinking he _kept_ his promise.  Viktor wonders if his heart could physically burst out of his chest from loving someone too much, from wanting nothing more than to protect them and keep them safe and happy forever.  He just wants to hold Yuuri and make him smile every day, wants to keep anything like this from ever happening again, wants…

“I love you,” he whispers fiercely, pressing Yuuri closer still.  “I love you.  Please.  Let me take care of you.  Where are you hurt?”

Yuuri winces, finally opening his eyes again.  “Um—ow—not—not so tight, please?  I—bruised ribs, or maybe broken, I don’t know, it just—it hurts,” and he stops, taking careful, shallow breaths.  Viktor immediately loosens his arms around him, kissing his forehead in apology.

“I’m so sorry, darling,” he murmurs.  “I didn’t mean to hurt you.  What else?”

Yuuri shifts, leaning gingerly against his chest.  “Lots of bruises?  Nothing… nothing major, I think.  M-maybe a concussion?  One of them—she kicked me in the head and everything feels fuzzy, but that might be a magic thing, so…”  He pauses to take another measured breath, wincing, and then adds with a touch of wry humor, “Also, my face, but I think you already saw that.”

“I did,” Viktor agrees.  He’s glad Yuuri feels alright enough to joke, but personally, he’s still far too shaken by this to be able to joke back, not when Yuuri is in his arms, trembling with exertion and liberally splattered in his own blood.  “We should get you back to the palace.  Do you think you can walk a little, or should I carry you?  Just to the car, it’s close by.  I don’t want you to hurt yourself any further.”

“Mm,” Yuuri hums.  He sighs again.  “I think I can, maybe for a little while at least…”

“Alright,” Viktor says.  “Tell me if that changes.”

He carefully helps Yuuri get to his feet, slides an arm around him for support, and patiently stands as Yuuri catches his breath again, leaning heavily into his side.

“Thanks,” Yuuri wheezes, looking up with a tiny smile that makes Viktor’s chest ache, both because Yuuri’s smile is still so breathtaking and because of the bloody line running up his cheek.  But then Yuuri’s gaze snaps to something over Viktor’s shoulder and his eyes widen, his breath catching in his throat, and his grip on Viktor’s arm becomes vicelike as he cries, “Vitya—!”

Viktor whirls, thrusting Yuuri safely behind him and calling up more ice, just in time to see a third assassin waver on his feet, clutching at his throat and wheezing pathetically as he falls to his knees.  Elemental fire magic in his hands fizzles out and turns to smoke that lazily rises up into the sky, and it’s the work of a moment for Viktor to use the magic already swirling under his fingertips to imprison him in ice along with his companions. 

“Let us go!” the first man cries again.  “Damn you!”  The second assassin is grey-faced and silent; only now does Viktor notice the grisly sight of her neatly severed hand on the ground, surrounded by blood, the same blood that’s turning his ice pink.  Did Yuuri really manage that with his little knife?

Ignoring the assassins again, because his priorities are definitely on more important things right now, Viktor turns back to Yuuri, who stands precariously behind him, even paler than before.

“What did you _do?”_ he asks.

“He was—about to burn you,” Yuuri manages, each word sounding labored, difficult, and exhausting.  “I—I made him… I made him have a panic attack.  Knocked him out earlier, with something… something similar?  It was—maybe it was a bad idea, though, um—I used too much magic today.”  He sways on his feet and Viktor reaches for him, protective and worried, as he tugs gently at Viktor’s sleeve.  “Um, Vitya?”

“Yes, dearest?” Viktor asks, frowning.  “What’s wrong?”

“I think I’m going to pass out now,” Yuuri says, and promptly collapses.

Viktor catches him, sinks to his knees with Yuuri cradled to his chest again, and scans the area to make sure nobody else is lying in wait.  He can’t _believe_ himself for missing that third assassin in his rush to get to Yuuri, honestly… if he had been a bit more careful, a bit more observant, Yuuri wouldn’t have had to hurt himself in order to—

 _He saved my life_ , Viktor thinks, full of a mixture of wonder and guilt as he looks down at the precious, precious head of dark hair tucked against his shoulder.  _He saved my life while in this state._

“I love you,” he whispers again, lips brushing the top of Yuuri’s head.

Alright.

New plan.

He gently scoops Yuuri up, one hand supporting his back and the other under his legs, and turns to the three ice-bound assassins.  They aren’t shadow assassins after all, he’s realized—they look like run-of-the-mill regular ones, much cheaper to hire but much less disciplined and effective.  That’s good, in this case—Yuuri wouldn’t have stood a chance against three fully trained shadow assassins.  Which raises the question of where the shadow magic he saw earlier came from, but…

“You three,” he says, his voice frigid as he draws himself up, every inch of him the cold, cruel “ice prince” they expect him to be.  “You know full well the penalty for assaulting a member of the royal family is death, and you attempted to murder Prince Katsuki, my fiancé, an event that I personally bore witness to.  Should you elect to stand trial nonetheless, you have that right, but your odds of acquittal are slim to none, especially not when you have _me_ as your enemy.”

“ _Fuck you_ ,” the broad-shouldered man, the one he first pinned to the wall, wheezes.  “Get your fucking ice off me, I can’t feel my legs, you bastard!”

“Ah,” Viktor says conversationally, shifting Yuuri in his arms, and smiles frostily.  “Yes, you know, ice does tend to do that.  Frostbite.  You _could_ keep trying to move, but you’re probably going to just tear your skin off if you keep that up, you know—what _were_ you thinking, exposing your bare skin to ice?”

“Are you just going to _gloat_?” the man asks harshly.  “God, just kill us and be done with it!”

“I could do that,” Viktor agrees, keeping his voice chilly and pleasant.  All the warmth in him has been directed solely to the man in his arms, and there’s none left for the rest of the world; to anyone but Yuuri, he will be nothing but ice.  “I might, if you cooperate.  Who sent you?”

“We can’t tell you,” the woman says, raggedly.  “She told us—she said we can’t say.”

“She?” Viktor repeats.  “And who’s _she_?  Come on, what’s a secret between people like us?  You can tell me.  I have time, you know—and it’s not like _you’re_ going anywhere.  Isn’t it funny, that you might slowly freeze to death in the middle of _summer?”_

A bluff.  He can’t linger for much more time, not when he’s so worried about Yuuri.  He has to get medical help as soon as possible.

“We can’t tell you!” the woman insists.

“Can’t, or won’t?” Viktor asks, tilting his head to one side and smiling the coldest smile he can muster.

“Lady Golovkina,” the man on the ground gasps.  That’s the one Yuuri forced the panic attack on, the one who’s still pale and shaking—though that might also be the ice.  “It was Lady Golovkina.  Please, don’t do this, please, just end this quickly…”

Lady Golovkina?  It would make _sense_ , politically speaking, but Viktor never thought she was the type to hire assassins to murder someone in broad daylight—the kind of assassination that would be covered extensively in the news.  And with assassins disguised as plain-clothed people, too, as if it was some kind of populist act instead of a court one.  This doesn’t sound like a Golovkina thing to do, but…

“I see,” Viktor says.  Then he hefts Yuuri in his arms and starts to walk away.  “Well, I have places to be.  Thanks _so_ much for your cooperation!”

“H-hey, wait!” the man frozen to the wall yelps.  “You can’t—you can’t just _leave_ us here!”

Viktor ignores him, striding through his ice traps again with ease.  He only pauses once, to set Yuuri against his chest for a moment and dig out his phone, putting in an earpiece so he can call hands-free.  He also notices a black knife on the ground and realizes it’s Yuuri’s, because he knows he’s seen Yuuri wear that on his belt before, so he stoops and picks it up, encasing the unsheathed blade in a dull coating of ice charmed not to melt before he drops it in his pocket.  The cold seeps through his clothes almost immediately, coiling against his skin, but he’s more than used to the touch of ice by now.  It’s almost a comfort, actually.

First, he alerts the Petersburg Royal Guard that there are three criminals that need to be apprehended, rattling off the location with a calm façade that impresses even himself.  He doesn’t _feel_ calm, not with Yuuri unconscious and bloodied in his arms, and he won’t feel calm until he knows Yuuri is going to be absolutely fine.

The second call is to his mother’s direct line, a number he doesn’t call often, because Queen Vasilisa is usually terribly busy.  But this is definitely a matter that warrants her immediate attention, and the fact that he doesn’t call her often during the day is going to tip her off that something important has happened, and that something is wrong.

She picks up on the second ring as he ignores passerby staring and snapping pictures, focusing on getting Yuuri to the car and bringing him to safety.  This was in public to begin with; it’s not practical to hope it would remain quiet.  He wouldn’t be surprised if pictures of the wall of ice he left blocking the assassins in the alleyway from the street are already online.  There will undoubtedly be reporters at the palace gates soon, but none of that matters.  The only thing that matters is Yuuri.

“Vityen’ka?”  His mother’s voice is calm, collected, and brisk, familiar enough in its steadiness that Viktor allows his own to show some of the shakiness he feels.

“Mama?”

“What happened?” she asks sharply, immediately, as if just that one word, just two syllables of vulnerability, was enough to let her know something is horribly wrong.  “Where are you?”

“I’m coming home right now,” he answers.  “Can you meet me in the family garage?  And bring the doctor, please.  Someone tried to kill Yuuri.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath from the other end of the line.  Viktor rounds the corner of the next block and turns down the side street that takes him to the private lot where he parked his car, his arms starting to ache from Yuuri’s weight.

“He’s hurt?  Where?  When?  Tell me everything,” his mother demands.

“In the middle of town,” Viktor answers.  “I’m pretty sure people saw at least some things—they’re definitely seeing me carry him to my car right now, anyway—he’s unconscious, but nothing seems to be life-threatening.  It was—it was just now, I have a feeling there are going to be stories already online about it, on the gossip sites.  We’ll need to make a statement soon before anyone tries to twist it—”

“I know,” she says gently.  “I know, child.  I’ll call King and Queen Katsuki myself.  You’re certain he’s going to be fine, yes?”

“I got there in time,” is all Viktor says. “I already alerted the guard to come get the assassins, I left them in the alley where they attacked Yuuri.  We can interrogate them later—oh, they told me Lady Golovkina sent them.”

“Really?” Queen Vasilisa asks, her voice colored with a tinge of surprise.  “This isn’t what I would’ve expected from Svetlana.”

“I thought it suspicious, too,” Viktor admits, and thank god, he’s finally in the private lot, finally can get Yuuri in the car and drive to the palace.  It’s a relief to be out of the public eye, and it’s an even bigger relief to be bringing Yuuri to the care of the private doctors employed by the royal family.  They’ll see him immediately, and he’ll be okay.  “But I didn’t hang around to ask—I’m worried about Yuuri, he fainted earlier and he still hasn’t woken up…”

“Bring him home,” his mother says as he starts the car.  “Bring him home, Vityen’ka.  We’ll take care of him.”

Viktor carefully lays Yuuri down in the back seat, taking off his jacket and folding it into a makeshift pillow to put under his fiancé’s head, and circles around to get behind the wheel.  Hopefully, driving will calm his nerves—he’s always enjoyed it, which is part of why he’s always turned down a chaffeur.  “I will,” he says.

“Good,” Queen Vasilisa answers.  “I’ll call the Katsukis now, so I’ll talk to you when you get here.  Drive safely, Vityen’ka.”

She hangs up, and Viktor takes one last glance at Yuuri, reaching back to tenderly smooth the hair from his forehead.  He hesitates to withdraw, cupping Yuuri’s unharmed cheek.

“I’m so sorry for letting this happen to you, my love,” he murmurs.  Yuuri sighs but doesn’t wake, though he does lean his face into Viktor’s touch, and that more than anything makes the knot in Viktor’s chest tighten.  He pulls away and faces the wheel, taking a deep breath to steady himself, and then starts the car.

 _Bring him home_ , his mother told him.  _Bring him home, Vityen’ka_.

And he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the plot thickens...
> 
> ......bUT WHO CARES WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO ITS PARTY TIME WE'RE OVER 100K!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ♪♫♪
> 
> ANOTHER REASON TO PARTY: pots did ANOTHER beautiful thing and you all probably already saw it but PLEASE APPRECIATE [THIS](http://beanpots.tumblr.com/post/158845326333/will-i-ever-stop-making-fanart-for-this)
> 
> alrighty notes! :D
> 
> 1\. IMPORTANT - another change to the update schedule! i'll be posting every other week instead of every week. the reasons for this are that a) when i first started this fic, i was aiming for chapters around like, 6 or 7 thousand words. this thing? this is over three times that. this is 22.4k words. that's a lot more than what i can actually manage in a week, especially when school is in. this way, i'm less stressed AND i have more time to edit and ensure that it's good quality writing! c: and b) additionally, i'm in the final six weeks of the semester at this point, and everything is getting hectic - i don't even want to THINK about final exams - but yeah, tl;dr i can't keep up with _this much_ writing every single week!
> 
> 2\. ALSO IMPORTANT - i've received this question several times now, and like, no hard feelings toward anyone who's asked it because i know you didn't mean to and you didn't have any way of knowing, but!!! please stop asking me to write smut/whether i'll include sexual content of any sort/etc, it actually makes me kinda uncomfortable. i'm addressing this now and in the future i will just ignore queries on the topic: **i am not planning to include any smut in this fic.** thanks for your understanding!
> 
> 3\. to every single person who commented any variant of "omg i want to see viktor get all protective of yuuri with his ice magic" i hope you all know that when i read your comments i _cackled_ and also it was _really_ hard not to reply immediately with "HOHOHOHO WELL ABOUT THAT ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)"
> 
> 4\. on the note of lennys, i have to credit the incredible one phichit sent (i'd paste him here again, but author's notes are in HTML not rich text editor, and it's not kind to him) to my good friend/occasional beta reader pari, who immediately whips it out every time i mention the cute girl i kind of like. his name is gremlenny because he's a gremlin lenny. s/o to you pari you're a fucking meme ily
> 
> 5\. this isn't even a note but like. that last scene was so self-indulgent i hope you all know i wrote 100k words of buildup to be able to write that scene it was _so_ self-indulgent oh man
> 
> 6\. was the inclusion of music good?? i'm sort of toying with the idea of linking the music i use when writing in the fic, but idk if anyone would actually be interested in that, haha. (on that note the chapter title came from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=auyiYHVPSvM) !!!
> 
> next time: when the fog closes in around us, can i hide in your heart?


	9. you and i, we choose each other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri recovers, Mila talks, and Viktor finds out that he doesn't have to face his inner demons alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mood music linked here and there again (pay attention there's one that should have hovertext, haha. don't click that one unless you're here for a laugh)

Grey.

Everything feels muted, grey, and fuzzy.  Swimming in and out of reality, Yuuri is lost in the haze of exhaustion.  At some point he thinks he’s aware that something hurts—everything, maybe?—and that he’s also lying down on something that must be a bed, but even though he can hear people’s voices, he can’t _feel_ any presences.  Maybe he’s dreaming.

It’s so very grey.

He tries to open his eyes and blinks, dazed and confused, for a moment.  There’s a ceiling, yes—

_worryworryworry / Concern / Fear / Anger / howdarethey!!! howdaretheytouch / resignation I-will-do-what-I-must / minemineminemine / protect, must protect / precious / cold / bad / badwrongbad / badbadbadbadBADWRONGWRONG_

He cries out.

The sudden surge of emotions, all these swirling, messy emotions that aren’t his own, slams into his mind with the force of a freight train, and he physically flinches back from it.  Feelings roar in his ears, singing in his veins with a fierceness that he doesn’t possess the strength to temper, so they just wash over and through him like he’s a limp, rag doll, just there to be the conduit.  It takes him several seconds too long to work out how many people there are around him, based on the feeling of their minds and emotions, and it takes him even longer than that to realize he’s squeezed his eyes shut again.

“Yuuri!” someone says, and oh, that’s—that’s Vitya, Vitya is still with him, he can feel him nearby, he’s the one who feels like _you’re-safe-you’re-safe_ and desperate, pleading comfort, feels like protective rage brewing far away like the rising waters of a river about to flood.  “Yuuri?  Open your eyes, you’re safe now.  I’m here.”

He keeps his eyes squeezed shut and blindly reaches out, fumbling in the darkness, and a hand finds his, and it’s cool to the touch.  Vitya’s hands were cold earlier, too, even colder than this, like two blocks of gentle ice.  The thought is almost funny, except it makes him think about _earlier_ , and…

Breathing hurts.

Breathing hurts a lot.

Suddenly he’s in the swirling nothingness again, and it’s grey-grey-grey and everything in his mind is too quiet, and he knows—he _knows_ this is just the last dregs of his magic, burning out too fast to be replenished, and he knows it will pass, but god, the sudden silence in his head is _horrifying_ , and he nearly bursts into tears.

“Yuuri, what is it?” Vitya is saying, and Yuuri can’t feel him anymore—it’s like he’s all alone, but there are people here, and the juxtaposition feels so horribly wrong!  He has to pick up feelings from just a voice, just observation, and it’s like he’s been blindfolded, or lost a limb, or _something_ —the point is, something is missing, and he feels horrible.

He forces his eyes open again, trying to breathe, and realizes that he must be back in the palace.  This is his bedroom.  When did that happen?

“Yuuri,” Vitya says, again, squeezing his hand, and Yuuri makes himself look past the emptiness in his mind to focus on him.

“Vitya,” he manages, but his throat is dry and his voice comes out hoarse.  “What…”

“You’re safe now,” Vitya says, but Yuuri doesn’t feel safe, not with his ability to feel anything flickering in and out like the last throes of a dying ember, flaring and fading with the touch of the wind before settling into nothingness.

“I—I can’t,” he croaks out, because he can’t feel and he can’t breathe, and everything is wrong.  “It’s—I’m not—I just can’t…”

“Shhh,” Vitya soothes, stroking his hair back from his forehead, and Yuuri blinks and wonders at how tender he’s being.  There are others around, aren’t there…?  He thought he felt more than one person, and there was that flash of _badwrongbad_ that has him on edge, too. “Shh, it’s okay, Yuuri.  It’s just us four—you, me, my mother, and the chief doctor.  You’re safe.”

Four.  Yuuri blinks again, swallows hard, and tries to breathe against all the bruising pain in his midsection, the dizziness and ache in his head, and the emptiness in his mind.   Three, really, because Yuuri himself doesn’t count, so… yes.  Three.

He’s so tired. 

_You’re safe_.

He’s so, so tired.

“Stay?” he breathes, letting his eyelids flutter closed again, but keeping his grip on Vitya’s hand as firm as he can manage.

“Of course,” Vitya murmurs.  His thumb gently rubs the base of Yuuri’s, and Yuuri sighs, sinking down into the pillows.  He can rest, and Vitya will be here, so even if that _wrong-bad-bad_ feeling comes back, he should be safe.

There’s the sound of soft footsteps, and Vitya shifts slightly, just enough for Yuuri to feel his arm move.  He doesn’t let go, though, so it’s okay.  It’s okay.

“Did he say anything?” Queen Nikiforova asks.  Her voice is hushed, and while the ever-present steel is still there, it’s tempered, softer than usual, as she talks to her son.  Yuuri hears just enough to know she’s not talking to him, which means he can sleep, and doesn’t bother paying attention as Vitya answers, his own voice low and gentle.

More footsteps, and there’s another person standing over his bed—it must be the doctor, now.  That’s the only one left.  Yuuri sighs, sinking further and further into the grey blankness, letting his exhaustion carry him away.  He’s _so_ tired…

And then his struggling empathy makes another last-ditch effort, and with a choking gasp his senses come alive again, flooding him with too much too much _too much_ , and he jerks, letting out another strangled, choked cry, his grip on Vitya’s hand becoming vicelike.

“Yuuri!” Vitya exclaims, and as Yuuri curls up into a tight ball, his free hand clutching at his head as he ignores the screaming pain from his ribs, another cool hand settles on his shoulder, pushing him back down with gentle but firm force.  “Don’t thrash around, you’ll hurt yourself, dear!”

“Vityen’ka,” Queen Nikiforova says, a stern reminder of—of what?

Yuuri doesn’t know.  Everything is spinning and everything is screaming and it’s all too much, all of it coming in at once after so much _nothingness_ , and god, how the hell does he normally manage this much information?  How does he work back up to it when it’s so—so much?  He’s drowning, he’s drowning, he’s drowning, he’s drowning, he’s drowning!

_worry—sharp sharp worry concern confusion panic—howdoIhelpIdon’tknow / Alarm! / Bad / BAD WRONG WRONG BAD BAD KEEP AWAY DON’T TOUCH **DON’T TOUCH ME**_

He doesn’t realize that he’s choking on screams and crying, jerking away from the doctor’s hand, until he finds himself suddenly halfway off the bed and wrapped in Vitya’s comforting arms, esconced in safety and comfort that provides a barrier against the bad feelings.  They’re familiar bad feelings, the ones he associates with court, the ones he felt in the alleyway earlier, and they’re _strong_ , and terror seizes him—

“ _Don’t touch me_ ,” he whimpers, pathetic and pleading, and Vitya’s arms loosen, gently pushing him away and back to the middle of the bed, towards the unfamiliarity and the panic.

“Sorry,” he says, but there’s a spike of hurt under it, disguised smoothly in his voice but less so in his head, and it’s evident enough that even in his exhausted and overwhelmed state, Yuuri can feel it.  “You were about to roll off the bed, that’s why.  I’ll leave you be, if you don’t hurt yourself.”

“No,” Yuuri wheezes, pathetically reaching for him again.  “No, no, no, not you, you stay, please stay, don’t let—don’t let _them_ touch me,” and he’s crying again, harder this time, and Vitya lets out a relieved breath even as his brows knit together with concern.

“Oh, Yuuri,” he murmurs, gently wiping away the tears before they run into the cut on Yuuri’s cheek.  That’s thoughtful of him; saltwater would probably sting.   “It’s okay, you’re safe!  It’s just the doctor, she won’t hurt you.”

“ _No,”_ Yuuri repeats desperately.  Doesn’t he understand?  Why can’t he understand?  “Please, _please_ don’t—don’t let them near me, Vitya, please—”

“Yuuri,” Vitya says and then stops, and Yuuri sees him helplessly look to his mother.  The Queen presses her lips together for a moment in thought, then sighs.

“He’s obviously very shaken,” she says, and somehow the ever-present steel in her voice is reassuring—it’s something strong, something constant that Yuuri can cling to in the horrible storm that’s threatening to rip him apart.  “My apologies, Zhanna.  It appears we won’t be needing your services right now.”

The doctor—Zhanna—balks, and Yuuri whimpers, clutching Vitya’s hand as hard as he can.  _Please don’t let go, please don’t let go…_   God, why is he so terrified?  Logically, he knows nothing here will hurt him, but he’s _so afraid_ he can hardly breathe, even without the pain and the bruising and everything else.

“But, Your Majesty,” Zhanna protests.  “Are you sure?  He’s still hurt, I barely even got more than a look—”

“He’s terrified,” the Queen points out reasonably, rationally, like the one solid pillar of hope in this awful room.  Yuuri clings to the possibility she’ll get rid of Zhanna, and maybe he’ll stop trembling then, maybe.  “Until he’s in a more receptive frame of mind, I don’t think letting a stranger so close to him will be taken well.  I will see to him personally in the meantime.  Thank you, Zhanna.  You are dismissed.”

“I—yes, Your Majesty,” Zhanna says.  Out of the corner of his eyes, Yuuri sees her bow deeply.  He doesn’t manage to breathe until the door has closed behind her.

And abruptly, again, his magic flickers, giving him half a heartbeat’s warning before suddenly the world is grey and too silent, again.  It’s enough to make him burst into tears all over again, and Vitya helplessly strokes his hair and gently wipes his face, cooing words of comfort that Yuuri can barely comprehend over the oppressively loud _silence_ that’s screaming in his mind.

“Prince Katsuki,” Queen Nikiforova says, appearing over Vitya’s shoulder.  “I need you to lie still.  On your back, preferably.  Everything will be alright, child—your injuries are far from life-threatening, and you are safe here.  Be at peace.”

How can he explain that his head is stuffed full of nothingness and he can’t handle it?  How can he tell them that when the emptiness in his head is so loud that he can’t hear himself think, forget finding his voice?

“Yuuri,” Vitya murmurs.  “Yuuri, it’s okay now, please…”

How does he know?  How does he _know?_   What if the badwrongbad feelings are still here, but Yuuri is just blind to them now?  He can’t feel _anything!_ It’s beyond disconcerting.  Like this, he’s useless—

“Please don’t cry,” Vitya begs, squeezing his hand.  “Please, Yuuri, I promise you’re safe.  It’s just us.  I’ll keep you safe.”

Yuuri cries a bit more anyway, but the fog and the exhaustion are coming back fast, and it’s getting too draining to keep sobbing, so he knows he’ll stop soon.  When he manages to relax, limp against the pillow and still precariously close to the edge of the bed, Vitya smiles at him, strokes his hair, and then turns to the Queen.

“He’ll be okay?” he asks, and the Queen smiles.

“He’ll be okay,” she confirms.  She rests her hand on Vitya’s shoulder for a moment, then sits on the edge of the bed next to Yuuri, the heavy silk of her skirts rustling as it settles.  “Rest, Prince Katsuki.  You can sleep, and when you wake, it will hurt less.”

As she speaks, she leans over and presses one fingertip ever-so-lightly against his chest, directly above his heart.  There’s an odd tingling sensation that shoots out all over his body—blood magic, that’s right, Queen Nikiforova is a blood mage—and then the Queen sits back, eyes narrowed.  Then she nods to herself.

“You can sleep,” she says again.  “This is easily within my skill to heal.  Don’t worry.”

_I always worry_ , Yuuri wants to say, but there’s a disconnect somewhere between his mind and his mouth, and his tongue feels leaden, so he just nods weakly.  He’s so tired, he’s so, _so_ tired…

“Sleep, darling,” Vitya says, stroking his hair again.  “We’ll take care of you.  Sleep.”

_Don’t go_ , he can’t quite manage to say, but he squeezes Vitya’s hand as best as he can, letting his eyes close again.  The grey fades to darkness quickly after that.

* * *

“And you’re _sure_ he’ll be okay?” Viktor asks, again.  He’s asked this question enough times that his poor mother is probably going to kick him out of the room any minute now, just so she can work in peace, but he can’t help but worry—somehow, he has a feeling that the image of Yuuri, bloodied and limp against the bricks in the alleyway, is not going to stop haunting him anytime soon.

“ _Yes_ , Vityen’ka,” she sighs.  “He was never in mortal danger from these wounds to begin with—fractured ribs are painful, but the fractures were all clean—there was no hemothorax, from what I can tell—so this is far from life-threatening.”

Viktor watches her work, moving her fingers in slow, intricate patterns over Yuuri’s skin, gently but relentlessly urging his body to knit itself back together properly.  The mottled bruises blackening Yuuri’s chest and back are fading into a healing rainbow, and while Yuuri is fast asleep, he seems to be breathing easier now.  His hand still clutches Viktor’s like a lifeline, and Viktor considers lifting it to his lips for another kiss before he reconsiders.  His mother would probably reprimand him for moving her patient.

“What did the Katsukis say?” he asks, electing to smooth the dark hair from Yuuri’s forehead instead.  “From what I saw of them, they’re very protective of Yuuri.”

Another sigh.  “Yes,” his mother agrees.  “They are.  Crown Princess Mari herself is going to come for a visit as soon as possible, just to see him.”

Another lapse of silence, another few heartbeats.  Viktor rubs the base of Yuuri’s thumb and plays with his fingers, trying not to look at the angry red gash on Yuuri’s cheek.  It’s the least worrisome of all Yuuri’s injuries, but it’s the worst to look at, in a way—it’s the only one that bled profusely, and it’s right there, a painfully stark reminder that Viktor promised to keep him safe and _didn’t_.

“They aren’t holding it against us, however,” Queen Vasilisa adds, looking up from her work for a moment, and Viktor raises an eyebrow.

“Surprising, isn’t that?” he asks.  “I’d understand it more if I’d been hurt in the process of saving him, but as it is…”

His train of thought is self-depreciating and he knows it.  Queen Vasilisa knows it, too, because she pins him with a sharp look.

“Your involvement saved their son’s life, as they see it,” she says.  “Don’t mix up your personal feelings of guilt for not preventing this with the way we must present it to the world.  I know it isn’t easy, seeing someone you care so deeply for get hurt, but you must keep your head up, Vityen’ka.”

Viktor sighs.  “I know,” he murmurs.  “That’s the oldest lesson in the book, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps,” his mother shrugs, “but the oldest lesson need not be the easiest.  You’re allowed to be upset—just understand _when_ you are upset, and don’t show weaknesses to people who would exploit them.”

“…I just… I just want him to be okay,” Viktor mumbles, looking down at Yuuri.  His hair is dark, fanned out against the pillow, almost like it was when Viktor woke up the morning after spending the night cuddling and watching movies with him—he would look peaceful if not for the red cut across his cheek and the dried tear trails near his eyes.

“He’ll be _fine_ ,” Queen Vasilisa says.  She pauses, sitting back slightly, and regards Viktor with piercing scrutiny.  He meets her gaze for a moment, but he can’t hold it that long, and with a shaky breath he hangs his head and focuses on Yuuri’s hand in his, his slender fingers limp in sleep.  “Something more is troubling you.”

Viktor’s breath leaves him as a ragged sigh, his shoulders slumping.  “I promised him I’d keep him safe,” he admits, plaintive.  It hurts to say aloud, but what does that matter?  Nothing he could say about himself would _ever_ hurt as much as the horror and shock and fear that ripped him apart for those few seconds in the alleyway, racing to collect Yuuri into his arms and searching for a pulse.  “I explicitly promised him I’d keep him safe, and then I went and let _this_ happen.”

“You didn’t,” his mother says softly.  She sighs, and for a fleeting moment, she’s not the Queen, she’s just another person struggling under the weight of the world, but then the moment passes and her chin lifts again.  She has the strength to carry it, and then some.  He knows this.  “If it’s anyone’s fault, Vityen’ka, it is mine.  I should not have caved to his request to be allowed to leave palace grounds without a major guard.  He made a strong argument for wishing for the anonymity of that orphanage, which I can understand and respect, but I should not have caved.”

Viktor sucks in a breath.  Lets it out.  “I can’t help but think… I—I should’ve been more careful.  I wasn’t.  I was overconfident, I _know_ I was, I just—”

He cuts himself off again, alarmed with how easily his throat starts to close at the possibility of admitting out loud that Yuuri made him happy, over these months, that Yuuri made him want to forget the bad parts of the world and focus only on the good, that being with Yuuri made his heart lift and sing and _soar_ in ways it never did before, that—that he… 

He…

“What’s done is done,” the Queen says gently.  “If you must blame yourself, Vityen’ka, my dear, turn it outwards.  Protect him in the future.  Don’t stew in it and drown yourself in a sea of would-haves and could-haves and should-haves.  Be there for him from now on, be attentive from now on, keep your eyes open and your heart guarded—and don’t drown.  If you let yourself go, the people who want to hurt him will have struck a blow regardless of the fact that he lives.”

Viktor takes Yuuri’s hand in both of his and bows his head until Yuuri’s limp fingers brush against his face.  He can think of nothing else to say.

He hears his mother sigh, and then she goes back to tending Yuuri.  They sit together in silence, waiting for him to wake.

_Please_ , he thinks, closing his eyes, _please wake up soon.  Please be okay.  Please._

“When do you think he’ll wake up?” he finally asks, looking back down at Yuuri, and the roughness of his own voice startles him.  It doesn’t seem to surprise his mother, though, because she hardly looks up.

“Give it a few hours, probably,” she answers.  “Hopefully, he’ll wake up and manage to eat something before he falls asleep again, but you know how blood magic is.  He’ll be tired.”

A few hours.  Viktor shifts in his chair, uncomfortable, and swallows hard.  Yes, he knows that this is how blood magic works, that it draws energy from both the user and the subject, in various proportions depending on the spell, and that the one used for major healing like his mother is doing to Yuuri right now will mostly drain Yuuri’s energy, so it makes _sense_ that Yuuri will sleep for a while, but…

Viktor doesn’t claim to be the most emotionally astute person on the planet, but he knows that if he sits here and stares at Yuuri’s wounds slowly healing as Yuuri sighs his way through a troubled rest, the guilt will just _eat him alive_.

“Vityen’ka,” his mother says softly, and he closes his eyes, unable to meet her gaze.  “Don’t do this to yourself, dear.”

She knows.  She knows, too.  It must be written plain as day on his face, _hello, my name is Viktor Nikiforov and I didn’t protect the man I love_ , and his mother _knows_.

“I want to be here when he wakes up,” he says, stubbornly arguing against her silent suggestion that maybe, perhaps, he should go.  “I just told him I’d stay, and this time I’ll keep him safe—I can’t just leave!”

“If you won’t take your mother’s advice, take your Queen’s command,” she answers, and for a moment Viktor can see, again, that she is tired, too.  “Your fretting isn’t helping him, and on top of that it’s actively hurting you.  Moreover, the longer I spend distracted and reassuring you, the longer it takes me to finish working on him.  Vityen’ka, please, go.  Take Makkachin for a walk, clear your head, and if you want to come back after you get some fresh air, you can.  But like this?  I won’t let you sit here and let your own thoughts harm you.”

This isn’t _fair_.  He has to stay with Yuuri, Yuuri _needs_ him!  He can’t stop thinking about the way Yuuri begged him to stay, to keep him safe, cried in his arms—how can he leave?  Viktor stares at her, incredulous, and ignores the traitorous part of him that’s relieved, that wants to put distance between himself and this horribly still bedside, wants to flee from it all.  “But—”

“I’m not arguing with you, Vityen’ka,” his mother says, and he hears the cold steel in her voice that means she’s speaking with the authority of the Queen.  “Go.  Take ten minutes, and if you still feel like you cannot be anywhere but here, come back.  I promise you he will not have woken that soon.”

Trapped, helpless, unable to argue, he presses his lips together, forces himself to breathe, and does the hardest thing he’s done today—he lets go of Yuuri’s hand.  Perhaps, in some more romantic version of things, Yuuri would reach for him even in his sleep, but this isn’t a fairy-tale romance and life doesn’t work like that, so Yuuri’s hand just stays limp, his fingers splayed loosely against the bedsheets.  Viktor smooths his hand over them tenderly, lingering, because he doesn’t want to go, but he can only buy himself so many seconds.

Once he steps away, he can’t look back, so he forces himself to put aside the emotions and to leave them in Yuuri’s room.  They’ll be waiting in their nice little box when he comes back through the door later, in ten minutes or so, but for now, he has to stop being Viktor, the man who is hopelessly worried and loves perhaps too much, and has to instead become Viktor, crown prince and heir to House Nikiforov, cunning and removed from all situations and—

_Snick_.  He closes the bedroom door on his way out.

A deep breath.  In, out.  Feeling a bit less stifled and a lot more numb, he takes a minute to just stand in Yuuri’s sitting room and breathe— _in, out_ —before he crosses the empty room and leaves, nodding once to the guard posted outside in the hallway.  Chin high, shoulders back, chest forward—his posture must be confident and impeccable.  Just as always.

He can’t let himself worry, or if that’s too hard, he has to make sure it doesn’t show.  Just as always.

It’s easier to breathe now that he’s not in Yuuri’s bedroom, though.  The numbness of court is dreadful when compared to the color Yuuri brought to his life, but at least this drudgery is familiar.  He knows how to play this game, and it’s just like shifting gears in a car—he’s almost moving on autopilot, letting his own brain run ahead for him.

Besides, there are things to do.  He can worry later. 

He takes his mother’s suggestion and heads up to his rooms to find Makkachin, intending to go for a walk, but Makkachin is curled up and snoring on the center of his bed when he walks in, so that plan ends up being a no-go.  Viktor smiles slightly at the sight, considers snapping a picture but doesn’t, and quietly leaves his dog to his well-earned nap.

So.  What to do with himself now?

He _could_ go for the walk himself, alone, but there’s always the possibility of running into people when he goes walking.  When he’s with Makkachin, it’s a lot easier to duck out of conversations because Makkachin knows that two tugs on his leash means to run off and drag Viktor along behind him, which lets Viktor just wave and call superficial apologies as he leaves, but if Makkachin’s asleep, he might actually have to _talk_ to them.  And he’s really not in the mood for that.  What if he runs into Lady Golovkina?

…

_Actually._

He doesn’t particularly want to talk to anyone from court right now, but he can think of three people he _would_ like to talk to.  They’re in a cell under the palace right now—let them _rot_ , he thinks viciously—and it is well within the authority of the crown prince to interrogate those who would jeopardize the royal family or national interests.  Or both, as it turns out.

Viktor considers himself—rumpled clothes, missing jacket, bloodstained shirt—and shakes his head.  That won’t do.  Posture and comportment will only get him so far—appearance and presentation are just as important in the intimidation game, and he needs to look _untouchable_.

Well.  Looks like it’s time for a shower.

Thirty minutes later, his hair falls impeccably against his forehead, and his mascara, contour kit, and tinted lip balm all help highlight the ethereal nature of the beauty he’s so well-known for.  He dons a new suit, this one a deep, dark blue with silver-and-gold thread swirling all over in rich patterns that vaguely resemble a snowfall, makes sure the circlet denoting his status is perfectly in-line on his head, and sweeps grandly out the door and down the hallway, heading for the palace jail.

The three assassins have been separated, each in a different cell far enough from the others that they can’t talk to each other, and Viktor considers his options as he hurries down the stairwells.  He could go to the brash, loud one, who didn’t stop complaining the entire time that Viktor was checking over Yuuri; or the one who lost her hand, the one who didn’t say much; or finally he could speak to the one who attempted to attack him as well, the fire assassin.  Decisions, decisions.

The one-handed one seemed both taciturn and likely to keep a clear head, of the three of them, and the fire one spent a good portion of the battle dazed on the ground.  Viktor wants answers about some of what he saw in the direct aftermath, which means the brash, rude one is probably his best bet.  Additionally, the man’s apparent inclination to yell and bluster will probably make him easier to intimidate. 

Mind made up, Viktor doesn’t even hesitate, gliding past the guards with a cool nod in their direction as he enters the halls of cells.  The assassin he’s after isn’t that far from the entrance, but he and the others are in a heavily warded section, covered in so many spells that as he enters it, Viktor feels his skin prickle like the air is full of crackling static electricity that just hasn’t found an outlet. 

But the magic of Petersburg Palace is an old friend of the Nikiforovs’.  It knows him and it coils around him like a protective embrace, ready to pounce if need be.  It’s layers and layers of spells, from ancient ones laid into the very stonework of the palace itself to the new ones, renewed twice every year.  Petersburg Palace is full and rich and vibrant, and it protects its own.  Viktor wouldn’t even have to use his ice, if attacked here—the wards would snap on anyone who tries to lay a finger on him before they got anywhere close.

Once he’s outside the cell in question, he sharply raps his fingers against the door twice, letting the air around himself grow cold again.  It’ll be a pleasant reminder of earlier, of course—because surely even for a trained assassin, a near death by hypothermia in late summer in one afternoon must be a lot.

The cold smile that curves his lips feels as familiar as the touch of ice.  This was the only smile he wore for years, before Yuuri came into his life, bringing with him warmth and laughter and love.  And this man was employed to kill Yuuri.

Ice rolls through Viktor’s veins like thunder.  He lets it come, welcomes the cold fury, and draws it around himself like a cloak.

“Good evening,” he greets, [frigid](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k1-TrAvp_xs) as can be.

The man’s head snaps up, dark eyes alight with resentment and desperate anger.  His pale hair, cropped close to his head, is mussed and grimy from sweat, and Viktor knows, from just standing there, towering over him as he sits on the bench, that he is intimidated, and that that is why he glares so harshly—he’s like a cornered, wounded animal, looking to lash out.  Let him try, though—he’ll find himself so outmatched it’s like they aren’t even playing the same game. 

“I don’t have to tell you anything,” he scowls.

“You don’t,” Viktor agrees.  “And frankly, while I _could_ offer you the possibility of avoiding the death sentence if you cooperate with me, I don’t think I particularly want to.”

It’s more like _if your employer finds out you’re telling me information they gave you, you’re dead anyway_ , and both he and the assassin know it.  Their odds of survival dropped to basically zero as soon as they got caught.

He doesn’t feel sympathy.  This man knew what kind of business he was getting into when he agreed to a contract to kill Prince Yuuri Katsuki, of all people.  Only an idiot would do something like that, even with a team of three—and only a _true_ idiot would face off against someone with the direct backing of Ruthenia’s Ice Prince.

And now, they face the consequences.

“Then why the hell did you come here?” the man demands, his eyes narrowing.  His fingers twitch as he clutches the edge of the bench next to him, as if he’s itching to lunge, to make a break for it, but surely he knows he’s a dead man if he does—the wards would activate if he tried to harm so much as a hair on Viktor’s head.

Viktor smiles again.  Ice flows from his hand outwards into a circle, and that becomes a cylinder, and the ice spreading from his feet reaches up to meet it.  He sits down on his frozen stool and rests his ankle on his knee, the picture of casual indolence, as if he doesn’t see the way the assassin is staring at the ice with trepidation in his eyes.  “Tell me,” he says loftily.  “Have you ever heard of the term ‘ _interrogation’?”_

“We already told you, Lady Golovkina hired us,” the man glowers.  “What the hell do you want other than that?”

“Give me your mission report,” Viktor commands.  “Spare no detail.”

“Why should I bother?” the man asks belligerently.  “S’not like you have anything to offer me for it, and I’m not afraid of you.”

Viktor cocks his head to one side, affecting curiosity.  “No?” he asks.

The temperature in the room drops ten degrees.

“That’s a pity,” he says, and smirks.  “You really should be.”

Fear flashes through the assassin’s eyes.

One heartbeat.

Two.

Viktor waits.

“ _Fine,”_ the assassin snaps, and oh, he’s trying so hard to look like he’s still got even an _inch_ of control in this situation that it’s almost cute.  “You want a detailed fucking mission report?  You wanna hear about every single time I kicked that Hinomotan bastard first, or would you rather let me tell you about the way he _cried_ when I almost cut his throat?  It’s almost a shame, such a pretty face like that, and he went and sliced it open on my knife—”

Incandescent rage swells and blossoms, not like ice but like fire, and for a fraction of a second, Viktor sees red.  He considers rearing back and punching the man in the jaw, because how _dare_ he talk about Yuuri like that, how fucking _dare he—_

But he doesn’t do that, because it’s painfully obvious that the assassin is just trying to get a rise out of him.  If that’s what he wants, fine!  Two can play at this game, and so Viktor sits through a detailed retelling of every bruise, kick, or cut inflicted on Yuuri, complete with descriptions of his tears and his gasps of pain and the look on his face when he realized he might die.  He’s careful to keep his expression from changing, keeping the same icy smile on his face throughout—it’s unnerving the assassin, and he can tell, because he keeps trying to make his story even more disturbing.

Perhaps, in some roundabout, shitty way, this is what Viktor deserves for failing to keep his promise in the first place.  But that’s a thought he really ought to just file away and think about later.

The assassin finally falters, which means that his story is probably getting to the point of when the tide turned—when Viktor himself arrived.  That makes sense; the last thing he said about Yuuri was that Yuuri was collapsed against the wall, exhausted and whimpering, but…

“You’re leaving something out,” he observes.  “I thought this was a fully-detailed mission report.  How did your companion lose her hand?”

The assassin— _remarkable—_ shudders violently, leaning back.  “Shadow magic,” he hisses.  “It was you, wasn’t it?  If not you, then it was your stupid Hinomotan—don’t play dumb, _Your Highness_ , obviously it was either you or him!  Fucking hell, that shadow just appeared out of _nowhere_ —it was right when you got there, so it _had_ to be you, wasn’t it!  You’re just playing mind games with me!”

So.  The shadow magic _did_ come from something involving Yuuri.  Perhaps it had to do with his knife?  Viktor recalls Yuuri saying it was a present from Phichit Chulanont, the shadow enchanter who lived at Hasetsu Castle for so long.  He makes a mental note to ask Yuuri about it later, when Yuuri wakes up.

“Would I ever do something like that?” he asks, voice dripping with sarcasm and false sweetness.  “Really, now.  Mind games?  During an interrogation?  You must be out of your mind.”

The assassin hesitates.  Then he explodes again.  “What the hell is wrong with you?!  Earlier you were telling him you _love_ him—we _heard_ you—but you don’t fucking care at all when I’m telling you shit about how I want to kill him?  Why is that not affecting you?!”

Ah, so that _was_ audible.  That’s unfortunate.  It’s … no, he doesn’t regret telling Yuuri that he loves him, but he does regret the circumstances.  At least in this case, however, saving face will be easy, and furthermore it won’t matter in the long run, anyway.  These three assassins will be dead soon, whether by trial and execution or by more assassins sent to prevent them from talking.

Viktor taps a finger against his chin idly.  “Oh, really?” he asks.  “And here I thought the word on the street was that I’m _incapable_ of truly loving.  I’m surprised that you thought I was being genuine.  What are you, some kind of soft-hearted romantic?  Seems like an odd pastime for an assassin.”

It’s honestly almost adorable how this man thinks he might be able to emotionally manipulate _Viktor_ of all people.  Incredible.  Cute.

“So,” he says, conversational and frigid as he shifts on his icy pedestal, crossing one leg over the other, “tell me what Lady Golovkina said when she hired you.”

This could be a crucial question.  Assassination in broad daylight like this really doesn’t seem like Golovkina’s usual style, so Viktor wants to get the origin story from each assassin separately and see if they match up or not.  It’s possible that Golovkina is being framed, but it’s also possible that she just thought about how something like this would throw suspicion away from her, so…

All avenues bear looking into, that’s all.  And then he can return to Yuuri.

* * *

 

Secrets suck.  Secrets really, really suck, and Mila is _not_ having a good day.

She can’t help but think that this timing is really, really awful—the same day that she overhears the most stressful conversation of her life is the day that assassins target Yuuri in town, and that’s horrible enough on its own, but it _also_ means that the Queen has been far too busy running damage control about that to be able to grant Mila an audience today.

She gets it.  She does.  The Queen _really_ needs to be able to take care of this.  But having to sit on this thing is… _awful_.

Wringing her hands in her lap, she bites her lip and stares, unseeing, at the latest news article on her phone, another updated version of events surrounding the assassination attempt.  The words start to blur together, mixing and running on the screen, and Mila blinks hard, shaking her head to try to clear it.  None of what she just read makes sense.  She knows, vaguely, what happened—everyone must have some idea of it, by now—but she just—she can’t focus on it at all!

_“Ugh!”_ she groans, burying her face in her hands.  Her stomach is a roiling mass of anxiety, her palms have been clammy with sweat for what feels like weeks but logically can only have been a few hours, and her mind keeps swirling with horrible thoughts of what could go wrong.  What if Petrov and Ivanovich somehow find out she was eavesdropping?  She didn’t even _mean_ to, but what if—and what if they manage to get rid of her before she can tell the Queen what she overheard?  The possibility makes her blood run cold, not just because she might die but because this entire thing might go unnoticed.

_I have to tell the Queen, I have to tell the Queen, I have to_ —

“Mila?”

She’s so wired she actually jumps with a strangled shriek, banging her knee on the underside of the table.  “Ah—!  Oh, Anya!  I, um, didn’t see you there!”

Anya is looking at her with readily apparent concern.  “I can tell,” she says, standing close enough to lay her hand on Mila’s shoulder.  “Are you okay?  You look, uh… pretty out of it.”

“I’m fine,” Mila says quickly, too quickly.  Anya knows her better than that; Anya definitely knows she’s lying.  She buries her face in her hands again and moans, wanting nothing more than for the floor to open and swallow her up at this very moment, except that if she disappeared now, it would mean she didn’t get the chance to talk to the Queen, which would mean…

A flash of a horrible thought crosses her mind— _I have no way of knowing who’s in on whatever they’re planning.  I can’t trust_ anyone _, not even my_ friends—and she almost bursts into tears.  The idea of not being able to trust Georgi or Anya or even some of her other friends, like Dasha or Irina, is horrible and lonely and oh, god, she needs to talk to the Queen, she needs to talk to the Queen, she _needs_ to—

“Mila, you’re freaking out!”  Anya touches her shoulder again, then pulls her into a side-hug, kind of awkwardly because Mila’s still in the chair and Anya’s standing up but somehow it works, and the tears come perilously close to spilling over.  “Mila, honey, what’s wrong?  Is it because of Prince Yuuri?  He’s going to be fine, you know, nothing was fatal…”

“I _know_ ,” Mila wheezes.  “I know, it’s—it’s not that—I can’t.  I can’t say it, Anya, I can’t, I need—I just can’t do this, I have to go, I…”

She can’t talk to the Queen, Yuuri almost died today, there’s no way in hell Viktor is going to leave Yuuri’s side after that, and Yura is too young to be able to really _do_ anything about this.  The list of people she knows she can trust regarding the alliance and the terrifying snippet she overheard grows far too thin.

“I won’t make you talk if you don’t want to,” Anya says, but she’s frowning in consternation.  “Just—okay, just breathe, yeah?  Do you want me to go?  I can hang out outside the door and tell people not to come in this particular sitting room if you want.”

Anya is a good friend.  Anya is a good friend and Mila _hates_ herself for doubting whether she’s trustworthy.  They’ve known each other for years, and yes, Anya has a ruthless streak when someone gets on her bad side, but Mila has been her friend for so long, and she wants to be able to trust her so badly it hurts!

But the Ryabovas haven’t always been close to the crown, especially in recent years—they had a major falling-out with King Pyotr, and personal friendships don’t always line up with political leanings, and _what if what if what if_ , and—

“You don’t have to do that,” Mila says distantly.  She does take a deep breath like Anya advised, though, grateful for the slow, rhythmic circles being rubbed into her back.  “I… I should go.  Um.  Thanks.”

“I mean, okay… If you’re sure, yeah,” Anya trails off, concern written into every line of her body.  She’s protective of her friends, Mila knows, and she hates being helpless, and it sucks a _lot_ that Mila can’t let her help right now, because it just makes both of them feel worse.  “Just let me know if you need anything, okay?”

“I will,” Mila lies.  “I think I just… I just need to lie down for a bit.  It’s, um, been a long day, you know?”

Anya smiles sympathetically.  “Yeah, it has.  But Prince Yuuri will be fine, okay?  It’ll be okay.”

Mila bites her lip and nods, then sticks her phone into her purse and peels herself away from Anya’s embrace.

“Do you want me to walk you out?” Anya asks.  The luxurious apartments where members of court stay aren’t very far from the palace itself; in fact, they’re still technically on palace grounds, but Mila shakes her head.

“I think some solitude and fresh air might help me,” she admits.  Mostly, she doesn’t want company because she’s pretty sure if she has to pretend that there _isn’t_ a secret eating her up from the inside out, she’ll explode.  “Thanks, though.”

“Well, alright,” Anya sighs.  “Text me later to let me know you’re okay?”

Mila pauses by the doorway and offers a wan smile.  “I’ll try,” she says, then slips out of the room before her resolve breaks and she breaks down crying and spills her guts out right there.

In the end, what saves her is a complete and utter coincidence.  Later, she’ll berate herself for not realizing that there was always someone to talk to all along.  Later, it’ll finally feel like she can breathe again.  In the moment, her toe gets caught on a lump in the rug in the hallway as she stumbles around the corner, and she trips, yelps, and falls directly onto Duchess Lilia Baranovskaya.

“Lady Babicheva,” Duchess Baranovskaya greets coolly, catching her easily and setting her back on her feet.  Mila stares up at her, wide-eyed and startled into silence.

It’s easy to forget Duchess Baranovskaya resides in the palace.  While technically a member of court just like the rest of them, she also plays a different role—she is the head of the crown’s intelligence operations, and if Viktor is the Queen’s right hand, then Duchess Baranovskaya is her left.  She operates in the shadows where Viktor thrives in the light, but is no less awe-inspiring or terrifying for it.

And if there’s anyone who might even already know about this, it _must_ be Duchess Baranovskaya.

Mila is still staring, she realizes belatedly, and gulps. 

“Ah—um—I’m so sorry, Duchess Baranovskaya!”

“No harm done,” the Duchess says briskly.  “You appear to be in a hurry, so I’ll leave you to it—”

“Wait!” Mila catches at her sleeve, then immediately withdraws as if burnt because that’s _so discourteous_ , what is she _doing_ , what a total breach of etiquette, seriously!  “Sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry!  I just, um, please.  Can I talk to you?  Somewhere in private?  It’s—I think it’s urgent?”

Duchess Baranovskaya frowns slightly. “You _think_ it’s urgent?” she repeats.

Mila nods desperately.  “I—think there’s something you should know?  And maybe you already know, but in case you don’t, I just—it’s really, um, I don’t know, it feels like a big deal, so…”

One of Duchess Baranovskaya’s eyebrows rises elegantly.  Everything about her is elegant and intimidating.  “Very well,” she says.  “Come with me.  I was just on my way to my office; you may tell me what you need to tell me there, but make it quick.  I have lots to do and I cannot afford to waste time on silly dalliances.”

It’s _not_ a silly dalliance, Mila’s pretty sure.  “Yes, Your Grace,” she agrees, falling into step alongside the Duchess.  “Thank you for your time.”

At least she’s got a first step.  When she tells Duchess Baranovskaya about what she overheard (especially the part about possibly keeping Viktor from taking the throne—that sounds like direct treason), it’ll be out of her hands, and the things that need to get done will be taken care of.  She’s sure of it.

She clings to that assurance.  It feels like after all the upheaval of today, there’s precious little certainty to be found.  _Everything will be okay_ , she tells herself.  Maybe if she repeats it enough times, it’ll feel true.

* * *

 

[Warmth](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ad7ejBn3KSQ).

It’s still grey, but it’s a warmer grey.  That’s the first thing Yuuri notices, gradually becoming aware that he’s awake again—he’s warmer than before, he doesn’t hurt, he’s still really tired, and he’s also hungry.

Overall?  This is a definite improvement.

A bit of mental self-probing lets him know his empathy, however, is still depleted and exhausted—it’s just like that time years ago, when he overdid an exercise while practicing outside of Minako’s supervision because he wanted to impress her so desperately, and now…

If it’s just like that time, he tells himself, desperate for comfort, then all he has to do is wait a few days without using it.  Empathy takes a long time to build back up after being so fully used, or at least it always has for him—he has a deep wellspring of magic within him, but when he empties it, it takes a long time for it to replenish itself.  He _can_ start using it again sooner than that, but it’ll be tiring and will just make the full recovery process take longer, and…

God, he’s so tired.  If he just goes back to sleep, he can ignore the way the world feels too quiet in his head now, right?

But he’s hungry, too, and he won’t rest well if he’s hungry, so he should force himself up and hobble to the kitchenette in his apartments and get a snack, and _then_ lie back down.  An actual meal seems like too much effort for right now, but a snack… yes, he can probably manage that.

In a minute.

First, a slightly more attainable goal—he opens his eyes.

“Yuuri?”

Yuuri jumps, startled, and lets out a yip of surprise, yanking the blankets up to his chin as if they’ll somehow protect him.  He didn’t—he hadn’t even realized anyone else was in the room—god _dammit_ , empathic exhaustion!  How can he live like this in Ruthenia?  It was bad enough being a teenager in Hinomoto without his magic, but…

“Yuuri, you’re awake!” Viktor exclaims joyfully, and Yuuri blinks, draws himself back to the present again, and attemps to smile.

“Yeah,” he manages.  “Still tired.”

Viktor closes the book he was reading and sets it on the nightstand, then leans over and caresses Yuuri’s cheek.  Yuuri closes his eyes again and thinks of the way Viktor held him earlier—was that today?  Yesterday?—so desperately, so tightly, when he picked him up earlier.  The gentleness in his touch now is so different.  He smiles, too, but it doesn’t look quite right. Is… is that a sad smile?  Yuuri can’t tell.  If his empathy worked, he’d be able to know for sure if Viktor is okay or if he’s just putting on a good act, but his brain is tired and fuzzy and he _can’t_. 

“How are you feeling otherwise?” he asks.  “Does anything still hurt?  Are you hungry?  Thirsty?  I have some water for you right here, if you want it.  Oh, here, you untucked the corner of your blanket, let me get that for you…”

Viktor is _fussing_.  Yuuri watches as he hops up from his bedside chair to smooth the covers out again, and then settles back down and grabs a water bottle waiting by the chair, unscrewing the cap carefully.

“Here,” he says.  Yuuri attempts to sit up, realizes that that involves a _lot_ of effort, and promptly gives up.  He was wrong, food isn’t worth it, he’s just going back to sleep now, okay?  Okay, cool, thanks.

But Viktor, apparently, has other ideas.

“Yuuri,” he reprimands gently, “you need to eat dinner, please.  Come on.  Here, it’s just water right now, okay?  Work with me here.”

Yuuri huffs out a breath.  “Can’t,” he mumbles.  “Tired.”

Viktor considers that for a moment.  “Okay,” he says, and sets the water bottle down on the nightstand.  Then he leans forward, slides an arm under Yuuri’s shoulders, and helps him sit up, propping pillows behind him so that leaning is easier.  He’s so sweet, so thoughtful!  Gosh, Yuuri loves him.  He’s so gentle.  “Can you drink now?”

Yuuri thinks about that for a moment.  “Yes,” he says.  “I think.”

“Wonderful,” Viktor says, and holds the water bottle to Yuuri’s lips.  Yuuri takes a few careful sips, small and slow, and realizes that _fuck_ , he’s really thirsty.  That makes sense, he supposes—he had a period of intense physical activity and stress, and he didn’t rehydrate himself afterwards, so… yes, so of course he’s thirsty.

…Intense physical activity.  That’s how he refers to things like dancing and sparring.  Is it also how he’s going to refer to almost dying, now?

“I have food for you, too,” Viktor says.  “Just some soup, but it’s hearty soup, okay, dear?  Just eat whatever you can, don’t feel pressured to finish it if you can’t.”

Yuuri hesitates.  He suddenly doesn’t want to go to sleep yet—he has a nasty feeling that sleeping is going to mean nasty nightmares, and eating the soup brings him one step closer to having to just go to sleep, and, well…

“In a minute?” he asks woozily.

“In a minute, yes, that’s fine,” Viktor agrees.  “Do you want more water?  Or do you just need a second?  Do you need anything?”

_Does_ he need anything?  The feeling of safety would be nice, but it’s not like Viktor can pull a little bottle of _that_ out and hold it for him to drink, so…

Oh.  Wait.

Unable to find the words that he’s looking for, he just reaches out and fumbles, yearning and desperate, until Viktor catches his hand and makes a questioning sound.  It takes a light tug to get Viktor to realize that Yuuri wants him to come _here_ , but then his face breaks into another soft smile.  This one looks a little less sad.

“A hug?” he asks.  “Of course!  Anything for you, Yuuri.”

He sits down on the side of the bed, and when his arm wraps around Yuuri’s shoulders, Yuuri sighs softly, letting himself lean heavily into Viktor’s side and weakly laying his own arm across Viktor’s waist.  Viktor is warm, and Yuuri is exhausted, and pressing close to him like this is almost enough to make Yuuri forget about the gaping lack of emotional presences in his mind, because at least he can feel Viktor physically now if not empathically, and also Viktor just makes him feel safe, and…

“Stay?” he mumbles into Viktor’s shirt.  “Please?”

Viktor smiles down at him.  It’s a sad smile again.  Yuuri aches to smooth it away, but he’s tired, and he can’t, and that knowledge settles into the pit of his stomach like a stone.

“Of course I will,” Viktor promises, voice low.  “I already brought things over.  I… thought you might not want to be alone tonight.”

Yuuri doesn’t.  He really, really doesn’t.  He presses a little closer to Viktor and lets his eyes flutter closed again.  Viktor sighs.

“…Yuuri?”

Yuuri hums a noncommittal response.

“I’m sorry,” Viktor murmurs.  Yuuri opens his eyes, confused, and looks up at him.

“What for?”

The sad, pained look crosses Viktor’s face again, and this time he doesn’t bother trying to smile to hide it.  If only Yuuri could make him feel better, if only Yuuri wasn’t so _tired_ —exhaustion is no excuse for unavailability; he’s a prince!  He’s supposed to be able to perform any duty at any time, no matter what!  Why can’t he just make Viktor happy?

“I broke my promise,” Viktor says simply.

Just like that, the brewing storm of self-deprecating thoughts dissipates, faster than the sun comes out from behind a cloud.  Yuuri stares at him, noncomprehending.

“What do you mean?”

Viktor laughs, a humorless, sharp sound.  _I don’t like that laugh_ , Yuuri thinks hazily.  It’s not a happy laugh.

“I promised I would protect you,” he says bitterly, unhappily.  “And look at you.  I wasn’t there, even after I made such a big deal out of wanting to keep you safe, and then you—no, no, stop.  Yuuri, Yuuri, how can you look at me like that, even now?”

Yuuri blinks.  How, exactly, is he looking at Viktor?  “I—I don’t know?” he says, still bewildered, and only after a moment of Viktor looking at him with hurt shining in his eyes does he realize that _I don’t know_ might be construed as an _I don’t think I should forgive you after all_.  “No, no,” he says, shaking his head emphatically.  If he was less exhausted, he would probably wave his hands and be frantic and panicked, but he simply lacks the energy.  “I—not like that—I’m not angry?  What—what are you talking about, Vitya?  You came, you were there when I needed you, you did save me!”

Viktor buries his face in Yuuri’s hair.  He’s trembling, Yuuri realizes—how long has he been holding this in?  How long has Yuuri even been asleep?  What’s _happened?_

“I wasn’t there,” Viktor whispers hoarsely.  “You needed me, and I came so late.  I’m so sorry, Yuuri.”

“Of the two of us,” Yuuri mumbles, closing his eyes and squeezing Viktor in an attempt at comfort, “only one needs to forgive you, and it isn’t me.”

Viktor takes a shaky breath.  “You’re too kind to me,” he breathes.  Yuuri thinks back to the alleyway, earlier today—or was it yesterday?—and remembers Viktor holding him, almost like this, remembers Viktor whispering into his hair _I love you_ , and wonders.

But if they’re going to have that conversation, it should be when he’s less… like _this_.  He can’t focus, all he wants to do is sleep, and his mind feels far too sluggish to connect any dots at all.  Viktor deserves better than that.  They can talk about it in the morning.  If it isn’t already almost morning.

“How long was I asleep?” he blurts out, and then promptly wants to smack himself because in what world is that the proper response to _you’re too kind to me_ and an admission of horrible guilt?  Where is his brain-to-mouth filter when he needs the damn thing?  He didn’t _mean_ to cut off the conversation about emotions, but Viktor seems to have taken that as a sign to pull back. 

Yuuri doesn’t want him to go, but he feels stupid enough for asking that question so _tactlessly_ that he doesn’t try to hold on, and Viktor settles back into the bedside chair.  He’s so close, tantalizingly near, but there might as well be a gaping chasm between them now.  Yuuri doesn’t dare reach for him again.

“A few hours,” he says.  “It’s half past midnight right now.  My mother set the fractures and took care of the cut on your face, then let you sleep while she went to call your family.  Your sister is coming tomorrow, by the way.  Anyway, later, Zhanna came in and healed the last of the bruising—nothing hurts, right?”

Yuuri shakes his head mutely.  Zhanna, the doctor—he should apologize for screaming at her, he feels bad for that.  Those bad feelings must’ve just been residual effects of the alleyway, and he took them out on her.  How awful of him, when she was just trying to help.

“Good,” Viktor sighs.  “Do you want to eat now?”

Yuuri nods.  Viktor leans over and picks up a charmed container full of hot soup, pours some into a bowl sitting on the nightstand, and then pauses halfway through offering it to Yuuri.

“Actually,” he murmurs, “if drinking water was too hard for you, I should probably just…”

He trails off, dips a spoon into the soup, and leans forward to hold it to Yuuri’s lips.  Shame burns through Yuuri—he’s so weak right now that Viktor doesn’t even trust him to eat on his own, and here he sits having to be spoonfed like a _baby_ —but he knows Viktor just wants to help, so he swallows his pride and opens his mouth.  The soup is thick and savory, and Yuuri realizes he’s _really_ hungry (which makes sense, yes, because he’s had blood magic used on him).  The rest goes fairly quickly.

Yuuri closes his eyes, intending it to just be for a moment—he wants to talk to Viktor again, wants to apologize for being so woozy and tired and not listening properly, wants to explain that he _does_ want to listen if there are things Viktor wants to tell him—but it’s a mistake.  Darkness is welcoming and much less easier to deal with than the warm grey haze in his head.  It’s so odd, being so alone in his own mind, and he hates it, he really hates it, and the tug of sleep is so tempting, just to get away from this all.

Just for a moment, he can rest his eyes and let his mind wander.  Just for a moment…

Nightmares come and go, hardly remembered, and when he wakes, late morning sunlight is streaming through his windows.  His bed is empty, and he’s the only one in the room.  He stares at the ceiling for a few minutes, reorienting himself, and then sighs deeply.

He should probably get up and start his day, but he thinks he’ll just lie here for a few minutes longer, wondering why the sunlight doesn’t seem as warm as it should.

* * *

 

The afternoon sun beams down over Thonburi, bright and hot.  It rained yesterday, and all the plants lining the courtyard are a lush, vibrant green, thriving in the heat.  Phichit leans back against the trunk of the tree he’s currently perched in and sighs.  It’s such a beautiful day, but he can’t enjoy it at all.

He glances at his phone, but there’s no notifications from the one name he wants so desperately to see.  Sure, he knows Yuuri is _alive_ —the news has covered that extensively enough, even if they haven’t gotten a glimpse of Yuuri himself—but that’s just… not really _enough_ , not compared to actually hearing from Yuuri, not secondhand sources.

_“ **Ruthenia’s Prince Nikiforov Thwarts Assassination Attempt On Prince Yuuri Katsuki**_

_Late in the afternoon, at approximately 16:00, reports of a disturbance in a quieter district of downtown Petersburg began to come in.  This street camera footage shows Prince Katsuki walking alone before being accosted by a seemingly innocuous man, who then shoves him out of sight into the space between a library and an unoccupied office-building.  At 0:34 the camera loses sight of Prince Katsuki._

_Amateur video reveals an alarmed Prince Nikiforov running from several blocks away to the area of the attack, implying that Katsuki managed to call for help, though the positioning of the buildings blocked the actual events from view.  Street camera footage shows what some are calling shadow magic around the alleyway at this time, though it cannot be stated for certain, due to the low quality of the video._

_When Prince Nikiforov arrived…_ ”

He’s gotta have read a hundred different versions of the same event by now.  Yuuri got attacked, something something shadow magic, Viktor Nikiforov arrived and turned the tide, then carried a seemingly unconscious and bloodied Yuuri to safety.  One magazine even referred to it as _romantic_ , a statement that made Phichit want to throw his phone across the room.  Yuuri was beaten and almost _killed_ , and their focus is on the _romance?_   Ridiculous!

But none of them ever talk about whether Yuuri’s okay _now_ , or about what _happened_ to him, and it’s driving Phichit crazy with worry and helplessness.  He drops one leg from the branch and idly swings it back and forth, groaning dramatically.

A shadow darts up to the branch next to his, flitting up the tree like it might if someone below was trying to play finger puppets, and Phichit looks up just in time to see Leki materialize.  Leki’s not from Xian, but he’s part of the guild; they screen by aptitude here, and the world’s best shadow enchanters are invited to join.  Leki is one of them.  Phichit himself is another.

“Hey,” Leki greets, smiling his usual easygoing smile.  “You skipped lunch.”

“I did?” Phichit asks, raising an eyebrow.  So he did.  He was just too fretful to pay attention to the time, apparently.  “Whoops.”

“I brought you a snack,” Leki says.  “Not actual food really, I’m afraid, but it’s sticky rice with mango, so I’m not gonna apologize or anything.”

Sticky rice with mango: one of Phichit’s favorite things in the entire world.  It’s the perfect sweet, especially on a day like today.  By that does he mean a stressful day or a beautiful one?

No idea.  Both?  Probably both.  It’s always a good time for sticky mango rice.

“Thanks, Leki,” he says gratefully, accepting the little plastic box Leki holds out to him.  “I needed this, I think.”

Leki’s brow knits together in sympathy and concern.  “Prince Katsuki still hasn’t gotten back to you, huh?”

Phichit sighs and shakes his head glumly, opening the box.  The delectable scent of mango slices floats up, and his mouth waters.  Wow, he _did_ skip lunch.  Right.  Anyway, what Leki said—everyone knows Phichit is close to Yuuri, just the same way they know that Phichit and his uncle Lord Chulanont, the governor of the region, don’t really get along.  He’s sort of become a local celebrity in the guild, oddly enough. 

“He _was_ hurt,” Leki points out.  “He’s probably still recuperating and resting after that, that’s all.  Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll contact you as soon as he’s able to!  Plus it’s totally possible that during it all, he lost his phone or it broke or something.”

“Yeah,” Phichit mumbles.  “I know.  Still worrying, though.”

 Leki smiles sympathetically.  “Yeah,” he sighs.  “I mean, that makes sense, dude.  I’d be super worried if _my_ best friend got beaten up in a back alleyway too, even if you hadn’t, done, uh… that spell.  Which, by the way, I still can’t believe you did.  On a knife for someone _else_ , too!  You’re something else, Phichit.”

Phichit laughs hollowly and nibbles at some of his rice.  “Thanks?  I just did it because he means a lot to me, and it was the most effective spell I could think of to keep him safe.  I dunno.”

“That’s really sweet of you,” Leki says.  He smiles, too, and Phichit can’t help but smile back.  That’s something he likes about Leki—all of Leki’s smiles are genuine, and they make all of Phichit’s answering smiles genuine too.  Leki’s just one of those people who’s absolutely brilliant in the field, great at drawing people to him and getting them to listen, and who is an utter ray of sunshine in every other circumstance ever.  “Did it hurt?”

“What?”  He totally zoned out.  Whoops.

“When the spell activated,” Leki says patiently, curiosity in his face.  “I’ve never tried that spell myself.  Did the activation hurt?”

Phichit considers the question carefully.  Yesterday evening he’d been feeding his elephant—he’s probably going to name her Chimlin, but he’s not sure—when he felt a strange… a strange _jolt_.  That’s probably the best word to describe it.

“No,” he decides.  “No, it didn’t hurt, it just felt… weird.  Like there was a weird switch flipped or something, I dunno.  Kind of like a stretch—you know, that’s like the point—but yeah, no, it didn’t hurt.”

“I see,” Leki says.  They sit in silence while Phichit picks at his mango and rice, caught somewhere in that awful limbo between being hungry and being too nervous to eat.  Then Leki leans over and prods his shoulder.  “By the way, I totally understand if you’re too wired for this today, but Rani wanted me to tell you she’s making that one curry you said you really liked—I forgot its name, but it’s the Bharati one that she said she stole the recipe from her mom for—and she figured Amir forgot to invite you over for dinner, so she sent me out to do it instead.”

Phichit hesitates.  “That’s really nice of her,” he says.  “I, uh… you’re right, I dunno if I’ll end up coming, but…”

He pulls out his phone, intending to text Rani (she’s the resident blood mage healer who works with the guild, and is also engaged to Leki’s brother Amir, and she’s a total sweetheart) thanks for the invitation, but just as he unlocks it, there’s a _ding_ from a new message.

He nearly falls out of the tree.

“Phichit?” Leki asks, alarmed.  “You good—oh, who’s the ‘prince of your heart’ texting you?”

Already typing out his frantic reply, heart pounding from painfully intense relief, Phichit answers absently, “It’s Yuuri, I named him that a while ago because apparently Nikiforov thought Yuuri and I were dating.”

“Oh!” Leki exclaims.  “Oh, that’s great, I’m so happy he’s finally getting back to you—okay, okay, I’ll give you some privacy so you guys can actually talk.  Just text me if you need anything, ‘kay?”

“Yeah, I will.  Thanks, Leki,” Phichit says, tearing his eyes away from the three dots on the screen for just a moment to flash a grateful smile to his guildmate.  His chest actually hurts, that’s how relieved he is.  It’s almost hard to catch his breath.

“See you later!”

Leki gives him an encouraging smile before he descends back to the ground the same way he came, leaving Phichit with the company of the leaves, the sunlight, and the words on his screen.

* * *

[10:39] prince of my heart <3:  
hey, i am so sorry i didn’t get back to you yesterday, it was… hectic

[10:39] Phichit:  
oh thank god  
i love you  
i saw what happened on the news so i knew you werent dead or anything so like  
don’t stress about leaving me in limbo its fine you had a pretty good excuse  
how are you whats going on

[10:42] prince of my heart <3:  
i just woke up  
im still really tired but idk i don’t want to sleep more so i think im gonna have some tea and read  
also… phichit  
you said you FELT the spell on the knife…? what do you mean?

[10:42] Phichit:  
yeah  
its sort of complicated to explain but that particular spell is sort of tied specifically to the caster  
aka me  
hey can we call? i want to talk not just text

_[Call to: prince of my heart <3.  Duration 34:58]_

* * *

 

Mari Katsuki is tired.

It’s been a long day and an even longer night before that—the phone call almost twenty-four hours ago saw to it that she’s hardly slept a wink, and whatever sleep she _did_ get was on a sky-carriage, because of the nearly-fourteen-hour flight to get from Hasetsu to Petersburg.  It’s around noon on the day after someone tried to kill her baby brother when she lands in the Nikiforovs’ personal skyport.

Prince Viktor Nikiforov himself is there waiting to greet her, and even though he carries himself with impeccable comportment, she knows what signs to look for.  There are things that any heir can see in another, and she sees the same exhaustion in his eyes, the tell-tale concealer under his eyes disguising dark bags that are no doubt borne of worry, like her own.

“Your Highness,” he greets, bowing slightly deeper than is strictly necessary between equals.  Mari raises an eyebrow.  He accords her such respect?  It must be a tacit apology for allowing Yuuri’s life to be endangered.  _Good_.  Offically, the Katsukis aren’t blaming the Nikiforovs, but that doesn’t mean Mari can’t be upset that her baby brother could have been killed.  “My mother extends her deepest apologies for not greeting you personally, as she is currently speaking with our head of intelligence regarding the incident.  Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

“Of course,” she says evenly, inclining her head graciously.  “I couldn’t stay away, not when Yuuri is in such a state.  The constraints of royalty have nothing on the bonds of family, and though my parents cannot both leave Hasetsu, I am relatively free to come and assuage their fears.”

“Of course,” Prince Nikiforov agrees dully.  He offers his arm, and Mari accepts, dismissing her travel attendants with a nod.  A steward of House Nikiforov should see to them soon—she won’t be staying long, just until tomorrow—and her priority is Yuuri.  “I hope it pleases you to know that Yuuri is feeling much improved today.”

A sharp stab of relief does jolt through her, though she doesn’t show it with more than a smile.  “He is?  That’s very good to hear, yes.”

“Thanks to my mother and the blood-mage doctor on the palace staff, his physical condition is just about entirely back to full health,” Prince Nikiforov continues.  He leads her to a waiting car, where a chauffeur opens the doors for each of them in turn, before he adds, “Of course, blood magic leaves him exhausted, so he’s been sleeping off the effects, but he’s no longer in pain or wounded.”

That’s a tremendous relief.  Her little brother is making a full recovery, and he’ll be _fine_.  Mari remembers the clamoring crowd of reporters outside Hasetsu Castle, the crowd her parents went to deal with after she scrambled to get out of Hinomoto, and feels crushing gratitude that instead of that, she’s _here_ and she’s going to be able to scoop Yuuri up and hug him so tightly he forgets to cry. 

“I’m glad,” she says out loud, keeping her voice steady and neutral.  “If he’s sleeping now, I don’t want to disturb him, though.  I know he needs to rest.”

“Well, if he’s still asleep, you could join me for tea,” Prince Nikiforov suggests, smiling wryly.  “He’s been slowly introducing me to all the different kinds he brought from Hinomoto.”

“That’s Yuuri for you,” Mari sighs fondly, smiling despite herself.  “A tea-fanatic after Mom’s own heart.  She’s the one who packed him that sampler set of the hundred different teas—that’s the one you’ve been going through, right?”

“Right,” Prince Nikiforov laughs softly.  “I think we’re … oh, maybe a third of the way through so far?  Perhaps a little over that, but not quite half.”

Mari raises an eyebrow.  “That’s dedication,” she says.

“Well.”  Prince Nikiforov shrugs.  “We decided we want to get through the entire thing by the wedding, so Yuuri drew out a tea party schedule for us.  We try a new one roughly twice a week.”

“His favorites are always the fruity lighter teas,” Mari says, wistful fondness stirring in her chest.  It’s been so long since she’s sat down to have a cup of tea with Yuuri like they used to, stealing away from court to hide in the garden maze and splash through the streams together.  Everyone grows up, she supposes, but that doesn’t make it easier to let go of the nostalgic days of childhood.  And then Yuuri was attacked.  He could have died.

“Duly noted,” Prince Nikiforov smiles.  “I had guessed as much, but it’s nice to have confirmation.”

“Yes,” Mari says stiffly, suddenly too choked on her own thoughts to carry further conversation.  They walk the rest of the way to Yuuri’s rooms in a somewhat awkward silence, but Mari couldn’t care less—every step she takes is one step closer to seeing Yuuri, to assuring herself that he’s alright, to assuaging the fears that bubbled up after all those amateur pictures of the aftermath of the assassination attempt surfaced online.

If asked later, she honestly wouldn’t be able to explain what happened between that walk and getting to Yuuri’s rooms, because it all just goes by in a haze.  What happens when the door finally, _finally_ opens, though, feels more like a dream, playing in slow-motion.

Yuuri is awake, sitting up in bed with a book in his lap, a steaming cup of tea (of course) on the nightstand, and Prince Nikiforov’s dog curled up at his side.  He looks up with a quiet “Oh, Vitya, you came back,” but then does a double-take at the sight of Mari, in the doorway next to his fiancé.  His eyes widen, and his hand falls from the dog’s head to his lap.  “M-Mari?”

“Hey, squirt,” she manages, heart swelling fit to burst.

And Yuuri bursts into tears.

Mari rushes forward as the dog leaps up, immediately whining and trying to lick Yuuri’s face, but she gently pushes him aside to pull Yuuri into a tight, almost crushing hug (it’s only _almost_ because she doesn’t want to hurt him, in his fragile, recovering state, but _god_ ).  He latches on and clings to her, burying his face in her shoulder with a little wail.

Well.  So much for hugging him so hard he forgets to cry.

“Makkachin,” she hears Prince Nikiforov murmur, and the dog—right, right, its name is Makkachin—stops nosing at Yuuri for a moment to look up inquisitively.  “Makkachin, come.  Let’s give them privacy.”

Yuuri clutches her tighter, the dog hesitates, and Mari slowly scrunches her fingers through Yuuri’s hair.  Prince Nikiforov sighs and calls out to the dog again.

“Come, Makka!  You can keep me company when we go talk to Lilia, yes?  Good boy.  Yes, yes, _that’s_ a good boy, come on…”

He closes the door quickly once he makes his escape with Makkachin, leaving Mari alone with her baby brother, her little baby brother, oh, Yuuri, Yuuri…

“Hush, hush,” she murmurs, rubbing his back.  “I’m here, Yuuri.  You don’t need to cry, it’s okay.  Did nobody tell you I was coming?”

Yuuri sniffles a wet laugh against her neck.  “Vitya told me,” he manages, his voice more wobble than words, “but I’ve just been—I’ve b-been so out of it I—I lost track of time and for-forgot you’d be here _now.”_

Her heart wrenches painfully again.  _So out of it_ , because he’s had so much energy depleted by the use of blood magic, because someone attacked him.  Oh, _Yuuri_.

“Silly,” she answers, shaking her head.  “Shhh.  Hush, now.  It’s over, you’re okay.”

“How long a-are you staying?” Yuuri asks, pulling back to look up at her with those wide, plaintive eyes.  There are still tears pooling in the corners of his eyes, making it painfully clear how desperately he wants her to stay with him, and part of her wishes she could say _forever, I’ll stay here with you, don’t worry_ , but they both know that that can’t happen.

Mari uses her sleeve to wipe away the tears on his face, but before she can answer, her gaze falls to the scar running along his cheek, a dark line that stands out harshly against his skin.  Subconsciously, she finds herself trailing her fingers along it, blinking back tears of her own.

“Mari?” Yuuri asks hesitantly.

She sighs and leans in to kiss his forehead.  “I’m leaving tomorrow morning.  I wish I could stay longer, but you know how it is, with trips on short notice… there are meetings scheduled later this week that would be a pain in the ass to postpone at this point.  But I’ll be here all today and some tomorrow.”

It’s more time than they would have gotten if Yuuri had never been hurt.  How funny it is; the very thing that’s sure to haunt both of their nightmares for days (if not weeks) to come is the same thing that allowed them to reunite sooner than planned.

“Okay,” Yuuri mumbles.  “Okay.  You… have to meet with the Queen, too, though, right?”

Mari sighs.  “Yuuri, do me a favor and let me fret about politics for now, yeah?  You can relax.  It’s gonna be okay, I’ll take care of what I have to do, and—”

Yuuri shakes his head slightly.  “Not… that’s not why I was asking.”

Mari blinks.

“Oh,” she says, realization washing over her, and she hugs him again.  He isn’t trying to force himself into the responsibilities that he should be taking a break from to recover; he’s just being her baby brother and wondering how much time they’re going to have together.  She only wishes there could be more of it.  “I do have to meet with her, but I’m sure that given the circumstances, she wouldn’t mind if we just talked in here with you present as well.  You don’t have participate in any talking, of course—just rest, recover, and if anyone tries to force you—well, I won’t let them.  Anyway, I’ll stay with you as much as I can, okay?”

“Okay,” Yuuri mumbles again.  He nestles his head into the crook of her shoulder, a familiar place; he’s always fit so well in her arms.  Maybe that’s because she’s always made room for him there, but still.

“So,” she asks after a few moments, when they’ve both started relaxing against each other, the desperation of the initial reunion fading to easy comfort and familiarity.  “How’re you doing, kiddo?”

Yuuri sighs.  “…Not great,” he admits, his voice small.  “I, um… do you remember that time when I was fifteen, when I was really upset that I couldn’t get the hang of empathic projections, and I, uh… overdid it?”

Mari remembers all too well.  Yuuri had been miserable for days afterwards, crying at the slightest provocation and hollowly whispering that his head felt empty and the world felt fake without the depth of emotions that empathy made him privy to.  The magical exhaustion had plagued him for almost a week.

“Yes,” she says.  Then she pauses, frowning.  “Did you…?”

Yuuri sighs wearily.  “Yesterday,” he confirms.  “I… I didn’t have a lot of other options.”

“Oh,” Mari murmurs.  Her heart squeezes again, thinking about everything Yuuri must have had to go through yesterday—how horrible, all of it—and she rubs his back again.  “Yuuri…”

She can hear the tears start to clog his throat again as he clutches at her, sniffling.  “M-Mari, I—they were, they were going to _kill_ me, I was g-going to _d-die_ …”

Mari squeezes her eyes shut against tears of her own.  Yuuri might be an adult and a prince in his own right, but all she can see right now is her baby brother, the one who would come curl up in her lap when his anxiety got too bad for him to stand the rest of the world, the little boy who always turned to her for comfort, the kid she’s seen grow up—and he’s hurting and he almost died yesterday, and she can hear it plain as day in his voice: he’s terrified.

“I know, baby, I know,” she murmurs.  “I’m sorry.  I know.”

Every member of nobility has probably had their fair share of little scares—mostly things like _oh, conditions are tense, perhaps you shouldn’t put in that appearance after all_ or maybe, for some extra excitement, a guard restraining an overzealous individual before they had the chance to do anything.  Usually those are just people in crowds who get too excited, and most of the time they aren’t detained long.

The thing is, most people, even in nobility, aren’t accustomed to true, actual near-death experiences.  Mari hasn’t ever come this close to being murdered in the streets.  Yuuri shouldn’t have, either.  She wants to protect him, to hide him away and smother him in love, but that’s not an option, and realistically, she knows Yuuri would just be stifled.  He’s always needed his freedom.

She still wants to protect him, though.  Seeing him cry like this hurts.

“They wanted me _dead_ ,” Yuuri sobs into her shoulder.  She can’t think of the right thing to say—what is there that isn’t callous or repetitive, at this point?—so she just holds him as close as she can, rubbing his back and humming traditional lullabies, just like she used to years ago when he crawled into her bed after a nightmare.

Eventually, Yuuri cries himself out again.  Mari strokes his hair.

“Better, a little bit?” she asks.

Yuuri nods weakly.  “Yeah.”

“Good.”  She kisses the top of his head.  “Go wash your face and come back, you’ll feel better.”

Yuuri slowly uncurls from against her and swings his legs out of bed with great reluctance, but he makes his way to the bathroom.  While he’s in there, Mari stands and goes to the kitchenette she saw in the side of his sitting room to get him a glass of water, then comes back to sit on the bed and wait.  _God_ , he’s suffered. 

When he comes back, he settles against her side and leans heavily into her, exhausted, and Mari wraps her arms around him as he drinks deeply.

“Do you want to come back home?” she asks softly.  “Nobody would hold it against you if you did.  We might have to rework some of the terms of the alliance, but that wouldn’t be—”

But Yuuri is already shaking his head, that familiar determination still shining in his eyes even if it has been dulled by fear and trauma.  “No,” he says.  “I’m going to see this through.  If I come back now, we’ll have to weaken the alliance, and I don’t want that—but I _want_ to stay here, Mari.  I—I miss home, but I like it here, too.  And I love him.”

Him.  Prince Nikiforov.  The man who saved Yuuri’s life, and the one who also apparently drinks tea with him and makes him laugh.  Mari nods to herself.  She knew Yuuri would say no, but it was worth asking anyway.

“Does he love you?” she asks softly.

Yuuri’s breath catches in his throat.  “Yes,” he answers, even more softly.   “Yes.  He does.”

“Then that’s all I need.”  It isn’t—her heart is torn in two at the thought of leaving Yuuri here like this—but it’s what Yuuri needs to hear, and even if leaving him means having to live with an empty space in Hasetsu Castle where Yuuri used to be, Mari will do it, because she wants Yuuri to be happy, and she knows Yuuri is happiest when he feels he’s serving Hinomoto well.  He feels like it gives him purpose and drive, and apparently it has brought him love, too, so—

Mari will support him no matter what, that’s all.

Yuuri sighs slightly.  “I’m still sad,” he admits, sounding tiny and lost.  Mari hugs him closer.

“I’m sorry,” she says.  “Can I do anything?”

“Tell me about home,” Yuuri begs.  “Please.”

“Of course,” Mari says.  There are a thousand and one things she could say, plenty of stories from which to draw, because Yuuri has been gone for so long and he’s out of the Hasetsu Castle gossip wheel, and—oh, _god_ , she’s missed him so much.  “Misako’s granddaughter moved to Hasetsu for school, and she’s started working at the castle after class some days.  Whenever you come visit, I’ll introduce you guys—she’s quiet, but I think you’d like her.  She gets along really well with the Nishigoris—the kids are all over her…”

She tells Yuuri about the vibrant colors of the summer flowers in the gardens, about the evening walks that Hiroko and Toshiya still take together every time they get the chance, about the latest escapades of the triplet children of the castle steward, and about anything and everything she can think of, until her baby brother falls asleep in her arms, still tearful but smiling. 

She does her best not to move until he wakes up, thirty minutes later.  It’s the least she can do.

* * *

Yuri has a problem.  Yuri has a big problem, and what makes it even bigger is that he has _no fucking idea_ what to do about it.  He’s just sitting here, staring helplessly at the other end of the couch, because, well…

Katsudon won’t stop crying.

Yuri gets it, kinda—he’s had a rough three days, what with almost dying and all that, and also his sister just left for Hinomoto this morning, but.  But holy shit, Yuri doesn’t know what to _do_ when someone just breaks down sobbing in the middle of a totally innocuous conversation, let alone when it’s someone he _knows_ and _cares about_ —what the hell is he supposed to do here?  Leave?  He doesn’t know how to comfort people!

“Uh,” he says, mentally cursing himself for his lack of eloquence.  Dammit, what’s he supposed to say?  What would Viktor do—

Actually, Viktor is an emotionally incompetent idiot half the time, so modelling behavior on him is probably Yuri’s first mistake.  He backtracks quickly.  What would… what would Mila do?

He scoots closer and awkwardly pats Katsudon’s shoulder, to no response.  Katsudon just keeps crying brokenly into his hands.  “I’m sorry, I’m s-sorry,” he repeats between sobs, shaking his head, his fingers pressed so hard against his face that the skin around them is all white, and honestly, what is _happening_ here?

“Um, it’s fine?” Yuri says, scowling because it’s easier than admitting he’s worried, but hell, he’s kind of worried.  “It’s, uh, everything’s okay, don’t… don’t cry?”

“It’s _not_ ,” Katsudon hiccups.  “It’s not, it’s not, it’s _not!”_

What the fuck.  _What the fuck_.

Maybe just talking it out will get Katsudon to calm down?  Yuri really kind of wants to run away and make Viktor handle this, but he’d feel really shitty for just walking out on Katsudon like this.  “Why not?”

Katsudon just keeps crying and doesn’t answer.  Another wheezing, gasping breath shudders through him, and he shakes his head slightly.  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

“Stop _apologizing_ ,” Yuri mutters.  “You didn’t do anything, why do you keep saying that?”

Katsudon is _shaking_.  What’s wrong with him?  Is he—wait, is he breathing okay?  Yuri assumed it was just that he was crying, but maybe he’s—shit, _shit_ , maybe he needs to go get the _doctor_ —

“I don’t know,” Katsudon manages.  “I just—I can’t do this, I can’t—oh, _god_ , I can’t!”  He shakes his head, takes a deep, quivering breath, and shakes his head again, more emphatically this time.  “No, no, ignore me.  I’m fine.  I’ll be fine.  You don’t have to worry about me, it’s okay.”

“Bullshit,” Yuri says immediately, and then hesitates.  _That was unhelpful_.  What else can he say?  “I… could go get Viktor,” he offers doubtfully.  Viktor is in a meeting with the Vinogradovs right now, but maybe they’ll have finished early?

That’s wishful thinking at its finest, honestly.  Yuri scoffs at himself.

For some reason, that suggestion makes Katsudon choke on _another_ sob.  “N-no, you don’t—you don’t have to d-do that,” he forces out.  “I’ll be fine, Yura, really…”

Yuri shrugs uncomfortably and pats his shoulder again.  What would Mila do here, what would Mila do?  She’d probably go for a hug—Mila’s almost as clingy and tactile as Viktor—but would Katsudon find that weird, coming from Yuri?

“I mean, yeah,” he says, settling for leaving his hand on Katsudon’s shoulder instead.  “Sure, you’ll be fine.  But like, I dunno, that doesn’t mean I should just leave you right now, right?”

Katsudon is clearly struggling to breathe, his entire body trembling, before he manages to respond, “It’s f-fine if you do, it’s fine…”

Yuri frowns at him.  “You’re a filthy fucking liar, Katsudon.”

They sit together in an incredibly awkward silence for several heartbeats, Katsudon’s cries the only sound in the room.  The awkwardness builds—Yuri thinks of the homework his tutors assigned, about _exponential growth functions_ and other math-related bullshit—until finally, Yuri can’t take it anymore.

“Okay,” he mutters.  “Okay.  What’s going on?  I’m not leaving until you stop crying, and you keep saying shit like you expect me to leave, so obviously one of us is gonna need to reevaluate something.  What’s wrong?”

“Can’t focus,” Katsudon forces out.  He does sound a little better than before, at least. “Everything’s empty.”

Okay… well… ignoring the weird second half of that, which doesn’t make sense, Yuri chooses to focus on the first bit.  Focusing is generally considered important.  “Um, okay, uh… what should I do?  What helps?”

“Not sure, this—this has only happened once before,” and then Katsudon chokes on another swallowed sob.  “ _Fuck._ ”

Yuri rubs his shoulder awkwardly.  What does he _do?_   He can just… stand here… and keep rubbing the back of Katsudon’s shoulder… yeah, right, like _that’ll_ help.  God.  Maybe he should call Katsudon’s sister, or the Xianese shadow assassin guy, if Viktor isn’t available. 

But just as he’s wracking his brain to figure out how to get any of their numbers without moving or anything, Katsudon finally raises his head, looking at Yuri with red-rimmed eyes.

“Thank you,” he says.  His voice is still raw and upset, but he sounds a little more stable.  Yuri cannot find the goddamn words to express his relief.  “That… did help.”

Yuri blinks, only now realizing he’s been rubbing Katsudon’s back this entire time.  “Uh, yeah,” he says.  “You’re welcome.”  He hesitates, then keeps doing it anyway.  If it’s helping, he might as well, right?  It’s better than having Katsudon fucking bawling all over the place like that.  “So… are you feeling better?”

Katsudon takes a deep breath, the first one that’s actually seemed to get air into his lungs instead of just a pitiful attempt.  “Yeah,” he says shakily.  “Yeah.  Past the worst of it.  Thank you, Yura.”

“Good,” Yuri says with relief.  “Do you, uh… do you want to talk about it?”

Katsudon hesitates, swallows, wipes his face on his sleeve, and sighs.  “I… do, but… How much are you generally privy to?  About court affairs, I mean.  Viktor and the Queen, do they keep you in the loop?”

Yuri blinks.  “Yeah, I think so?” he frowns.  “About most stuff, anyway.  Because I’ll have to be presiding officer whenever Viktor takes the throne, so yeah.  Why?”

Katsudon nods as if he expected that answer.  “Did they tell you about me?”

Yuri’s frown deepens, and his hand stills on Katsudon’s back.  “What about you?”

“My magic,” Katsudon says softly.  “I know I’ve always been evasive when you asked me about it.  Did they never tell you?”

Yuri shakes his head wordlessly.  What _about_ Katsudon’s magic?  He’s always wondered, because Katsudon mentions having dabbled in all sorts of different schools, but he’s never talked extensively about which one he _settled_ with, if any, but Yuri knows he has to have picked one because it’d just be stupid not to specialize.  And what does this have to do with Viktor and the Queen and court?

Katsudon takes another deep breath to stabilize himself.  “Okay,” he says.  “Well, I trust you, and you’re Vitya’s heir anyway, so I think—I think I can tell you.  Yura, I’m an empath.”

Yuri jerks away in shock.  “You—you’re a _what?_ I thought nobody actually studies empathy, what the fuck, Katsudon?  Wait, have you—you’re not in my _head_ , are you?”

“No!” Katsudon exclaims, horrified.  “No, of course not!  That’s not even how it works!  I can sort of get a sense of what you’re feeling, but I can’t read _thoughts_ or anything like that!  And I mean—look, if it makes you that uncomfortable, I can teach you how to put up mental barriers, you don’t have to study empathy to know how to do that.”

Yuri relaxes slightly.  Katsudon might have his secrets, but he’s still just a fucking _Katsudon_.  This revelation will take some mulling over, and he has a feeling that if Viktor and the Queen and Katsudon have been keeping it a secret, then he can’t even complain about it to Beka, but he’ll manage on his own.

“That’d be cool, yeah,” he mutters.  “I like my privacy, thanks.”

“Okay,” Katsudon says.  “I’m—I’m sorry for keeping it from you for so long.  But—but that’s what’s been upsetting me.  I, um…”  He takes a moment to compose himself, pressing a hand to his chest and curling in on himself a little, and sighs.  “I used up too much of my magical energy when—when I had to fight the assassins off.  And empathy takes ages to build itself back up after something like that, and I’ve just been feeling so—so _stifled_ because I can’t feel things like I normally do, and then on top of that this morning I had to deal with Lord Ivanovich—”

“That motherfucker,” Yuri mutters reflexively.  Katsudon is startled into a laugh.

“Yes,” he says.  “Him.  He came by to offer his condolences for the attack on me and his wishes for my speedy recuperation and return to court, and— _ugh_.  Yura, he _really_ rubs me the wrong way.  You know, back when I first got here, the very first thing he said to me was that if I didn’t go back to Hinomoto he’d probably send assassins after me?  During the welcome ball?”

“I remember that,” Yuri says.  Katsudon had looked at him across the ballroom like a lamb being led to the slaughter, all wide-eyed and terrified, before helplessly following Ivanovich to one of those private alcoves.  “He’s a piece of shit.”

“A powerful one, though,” Katsudon sighs.  “He keeps up an empathic block at all times.  He’s so paranoid!  But it’s not even that _good_.  I was scared of him at first, and I couldn’t get a read on him, but he doesn’t actually know I _am_ an empath, he just blindly keeps that shield up, but I can get around it when I try, and Yura, he feels like bad news.”

Yuri doesn’t need empathy to tell him that.  Ivanovich is one of the most powerful members of Queen Nikiforova’s court—he’s built on old money and strong ties to the military.  Add that to the giant stick he has up his ass, and there’s enough bad news for the rest of the year.

“Yeah, no shit,” he says.  “If he tries to come harass you again before you’re ready to see him, though, just tell Viktor.  I’m sure he’d be willing to kick his ass for you.”

(So would Yuri, but he can’t say that out loud.)

Katsudon lets out a watery laugh.  “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says.  Then, to Yuri’s surprise, he leans over and hugs him.  “Thank you, Yura.  You’re taking this a lot better than I was afraid you would.”

Yuri very awkwardly hugs him too, patting his back and whatnot.  “Yeah, whatever, Katsudon.  Enough of the mopey emotional bullshit, okay?  Let’s just go back to like, having tea and trash-talking Ivanovich.”

Katsudon laughs again, drawing back with bright eyes.  “Okay,” he says.  “We can do that.”

* * *

 

“My mother wanted me to let you know you’re going to be assigned a personal bodyguard, by the way,” Viktor says, and Yuuri looks up.  It’s just the two of them in Viktor’s sitting room, sharing some tea (today’s blend is an orange hibiscus white, which isn’t _bad_ but certainly isn’t Yuuri’s favorite).

“I don’t suppose I can just bring Phichit over here instead,” he sighs wistfully.  Even if he _could_ pull enough strings to have no repercussions from bringing a Xianese citizen instead of a Hinomotan or Ruthenian to guard him, it wouldn’t work—Phichit has a contract with the shadow guild, and owes his loyalty to them for the next several months.

“No,” Viktor agrees.  “I’m afraid not.”

Yuuri studies him.  His empathy is still weak, recovering from the assassination attempt, but it’s back enough that he can get a vague picture of the emotions and consciousnesses around him—it’s sort of like the empathic equivalent of looking around without his glasses on.  Everything is fuzzy and indistinct, but mostly there.

Right now, Viktor seems… a little on edge, maybe?  Is he still blaming himself for Yuuri getting hurt?  He seemed very hung up on it the other day, but they haven’t talked about that since.

…Which reminds him.

There’s something else he told himself he would talk to Viktor about, when they got the proper chance.  This seems like a good chance, probably…

…except that Yuuri also has something to tell him that’s far more ominous than any _I love you, too_ could ever hope to be.  It slipped his mind after the assassination attempt, as most things do when one faces a near-death situation, but it’s _important_.

He sighs.

“Vitya?”

Viktor looks up from his tea, wearing a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.  “Yes?”

Yuuri hesitates.  “How certain are you that there are no hidden passages that you don’t really know about around this room?  Is there a chance anyone could listen in on what we’re talking about?”

Viktor’s eyebrows shoot up.  “Fairly certain,” he answers, “though I suppose there’s theoretically always a chance.  Why?  Is there something troubling you?”

Yuuri sighs again.  Originally, he wanted to get out of the palace to talk to Viktor about this, but after—after _that_ , he’s a little leery of going out, and also can’t help but wonder if his own paranoia was misguided.  After all, he has no idea where the bad feelings are coming from, but that doesn’t mean they must be coming from _everywhere_ , and the odds are that since nobody knows he’s an empath, whoever’s responsible for this still won’t have any idea that he’s onto them at all.

Just to be on the safe side, though, he scoots closer, until he’s close enough that if he wanted, he could lay his head on Viktor’s shoulder rather comfortably, and fidgets.  Viktor sits, quiet and attentive—part of Yuuri can’t help but wonder why he isn’t being protective and clingy, wrapping his arms around Yuuri like he’s been doing at most possible opportunities.

It must be the guilt.  He can get a nebulous sense of it when he tries to peer at Viktor with empathy—it _must_ be the guilt.

“Yuuri?”

“Something _is_ troubling me,” he admits.  “It’s been there for a while.  Please don’t be angry that I didn’t say this sooner; I didn’t know how, for a while, and I wasn’t sure if it was important…”

“What are you talking about?” Viktor asks carefully.

Yuuri bites his lip, his voice dropping to a low murmur.  “I don’t know,” he says softly.  “But I have this feeling like something is horribly wrong.  I—I don’t mean like, a gut feeling or something—it’s, um… an empath thing?  At first I didn’t—I didn’t realize it was actually there, but the more I thought about it, I realized it—it wasn’t just me feeling nervous in my head, it was, um, how do I explain this… oh!  It’s like—it’s like the same feeling as when someone has bad intentions toward me, but, uh, _bigger_.  It’s not just around one person and it doesn’t feel directed at me, though, which is why I took so long to recognize it—”

“How long has this been going on?” Viktor interrupts, his eyes narrowing.

Yuuri bites his lip.  “A while,” he sighs.  “I didn’t recognize it as a feeling outside of myself for a while—I honestly just thought my anxiety got a lot worse and assumed it was just stress from moving?  But—but then even when I started feeling better about being here it didn’t go away, and then I started, uh, I guess, putting it together that it was from court, not in my head.  I was, um… I was planning to tell you when we went to the botanical gardens, but…”

“But that didn’t exactly go according to plan,” Viktor finishes.  He sighs and takes a long, slow sip of tea, then runs a hand through his hair.  “I don’t suppose you have anything more solid to go on than just a vague bad feeling.”

Yuuri shakes his head, embarrassment making him stare at the rug as warmth floods his face.  See?  This is why he didn’t bring it up earlier, what was he _thinking?_

“Alright,” Viktor says, and then to Yuuri’s slight surprise, he sets his tea down and pulls him into a hug.  “Thank you for the warning, dear.  I’m not sure what to do with it, so I can’t really say I wish you told me sooner, but we’ll figure it out.”

“You’re welcome,” Yuuri mumbles, relaxing against his shoulder.  Viktor keeps calling him _dear_ and _sweetheart_ these days—that, combined with the admittedly-fuzzy memory of being crushed in a hug as Viktor whispered desperate _I love you_ s into his hair, makes his heart flutter, and beyond that, it makes him _wonder_.

Viktor starts to pull back.  “Lady Golovkina has been detained for questioning,” he says.  “The assassins all said she hired them, though something still seems a little off.”

But Yuuri shakes his head.  This isn’t the conversation he wants to be having right now.

“We can worry about that later,” he says, and Viktor looks at him questioningly.

“What are we going to worry about right now, then?”

Yuuri reaches over and takes his hand, twines his fingers through Viktor’s slender, pale ones, and pulls their joined hands into his lap.  “I’m worrying about you.”

Viktor stills.

“You don’t need to,” he says with a dismissive wave of his free hand.  “I’m fine, Yuuri.  Thank you for your concern, but—”

“You’re lying,” Yuuri frowns at him.  “I might be tired, but that doesn’t mean—Vitya, I don’t think you understand how empathy works.  I still can’t do active spells and my range of perception is a lot smaller until I get back to normal, but you’re _right here_ and I know you.  It doesn’t take energy for me to receive emotions that other people are sending out, and I _know_ you’re lying.”

Viktor’s expression is unreadable, but that doesn’t mean much when the guilt is still there under the surface—Yuuri can feel it, like a cloying mess trying to drown both of them.  If he can do anything to make Viktor stop feeling it, he wants to—it’s hurting him, it _is_ , and Yuuri wants it gone.  Viktor saved his _life_ , and Yuuri loves him, and seeing him hurting is—

“Fine,” Viktor says, his breath leaving him with a defeated _whoosh_.  “It isn’t something you can help with, so I didn’t want to trouble you with it, but if you insist…”

“I do,” Yuuri prompts, when he trails off as if he doesn’t plan to continue.  “Please?”

Viktor sighs deeply. 

“The other night,” he starts, then falters, shakes his head, and forges on.  “You had a lot of nightmares.”

“I’m sorry if I didn’t let you sleep,” Yuuri says, wincing.  He hardly remembers them—he was just so _exhausted_ that he hardly remembers anything about the rest of the day after he passed out in Viktor’s arms. 

“Let me finish,” Viktor says.  “That wasn’t the problem.  It was…  While you were asleep and my mother was healing you, I went to interrogate the assassins about who sent them and all that, and one of them, ah… he gave me a rather _detailed_ account of everything that happened before I got there, and…”

He trails off again, his gaze resting on Yuuri’s cheek and the new reddish-brown scar residing there, and the only word Yuuri can come up with to describe the look in his eyes is _tortured_.

“Vitya,” he whispers.

“I didn’t get a lot of sleep,” Viktor forces out, swallowing hard, “but it wasn’t because you kept waking me up—I just couldn’t stop thinking, and I kept wondering which of those things you were seeing every time you cried out in your sleep, and I did my best to soothe you but I—you— _Yuuri_ ,” and he breaks off, lifting his fingers to delicately brush Yuuri’s cheek, almost as if he’s afraid to touch him for fear of breaking him. 

Well, Yuuri isn’t that fragile, and the only thing at risk of breaking here is his heart. 

“You got hurt,” Viktor whispers.  “If I had been more careful, this never would have happened, and now you’re hurting and suffering still, and I’m so, _so_ sorry, Yuuri.”

“No, no, no no no _stop_ ,” Yuuri breaks in, unable to take this any longer.  He places his hand on top of Viktor’s, pressing Viktor’s palm against his cheek, and holds it there, closing his eyes for a moment.  “Please don’t—it wasn’t your fault, Vitya, please understand that!  You saved my _life_ , how could I ever ask anything more of you than that?”

Viktor looks at him helplessly, like he’s mere seconds away from crumpling.  He just shakes his head mutely.

Yuuri’s other hand reaches up to stroke Viktor’s hair away from his face, tucking it to the side as best as he can, and then draws Viktor closer.  He keeps thinking about the alleyway, about how _relieved_ he was when the air cooled against his skin, about how being around Viktor feels like safety and comfort and home, and somehow, despite all of that, he’s calm.

“Look at me,” he murmurs, finally pulling their joined hands away from his face.  “Look at this.  It’s just a scar.  Without you, it would have been so much worse than that.”

“It doesn’t still hurt, does it?” Viktor asks, his voice low and rough.  Yuuri is about to shake his head _no_ when he pauses, smiling slightly as an idea glimmers into his mind.

“It doesn’t,” he answers.  “But what would you have done if I said it did?”

His hand is still on Viktor’s cheek, and he’s not sure if he’s been leaning in or if it’s Viktor, or maybe if it’s been both of them, but they’re so close together it would be so easy to just… erase the remaining distance, and—

“I would ask you what I could do to help, I suppose,” Viktor breathes.

Yuuri smiles.  A week ago, if they’d been like this, he’s sure he would have been internally panicking, wondering whether he should back off or attempt to flirt, or whether this was normal or not, but… it’s funny how coming close to death tends to put things in perspective.  He’s not scared anymore—he just wants to tell Viktor that being with him feels like coming home.

“And if I told you,” he says slowly, “that maybe… you should kiss it better?”

Viktor’s eyes widen.  Then he tenderly cups Yuuri’s jaw in one hand, his thumb grazing his chin, and gently turns his head ever so slightly, leaning in and pressing his lips to the scar.  He kisses his way down its length with all the softness of a prayer, slow and lingering, and each touch of his lips ignites a spark under Yuuri’s skin.

The final kiss is at the scar’s end, right at the corner of Yuuri’s mouth, and Viktor lingers there longest.  Yuuri trembles at his touch, wanting, wanting, wanting, and feeling as if they’re frozen on the brink of _something_ , just the two of them in a world where nothing exists beyond the press of Viktor’s lips.

“Like this?” Viktor breathes, and he isn’t pulling away, his words whispered against Yuuri’s cheek like a caress.  _Like this_ , he says, but the real question is _may I?_ , and Yuuri’s answer is of course _yes, yes, in a thousand lifetimes I could never turn away from you, yes,_ and he just needs to say it now, in the same language.

His hand finds its way to Viktor’s jaw, the other sliding up into his hair, and he guides him to where he wants him to be, pulls him closer—

“I was thinking something more along the lines of this,” he murmurs back, and then [he’s kissing Viktor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gpqmoBYkQfc), slow and soft and sweet, and Viktor is kissing him, and it’s gentle and tender and he never wants this one moment to end.  Viktor’s thumb caresses his cheek, Viktor’s other arm wraps around him and pulls him closer, and Yuuri sighs against his lips.

When they finally pull apart, Viktor leans his forehead against Yuuri’s and smiles properly for the first time today.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” he murmurs.  “Of course you would beat me to it.”

He starts to tip Yuuri’s chin up again, leaning in for another, but Yuuri stops him with the gentle press of a finger. 

“One moment,” he says.  “I think I’ve left you waiting long enough for a reply.  I love you too, Vitya.”

Between the two of them, Yuuri is pretty sure _someone’s_ heart is so full it’s fit to burst, but they’re so close and he’s so giddy on proximity and affection and _kissing Viktor_ that he can’t be bothered to tell which of them it is.  Maybe it’s both.  He doesn’t know.  But Viktor’s eyes widen, and then he hugs Yuuri so tightly it’s almost hard to breathe.

“My Yuuri,” he whispers.  “My love.”

Yuuri draws back just enough to kiss him again.  It’s a heady feeling, kissing Viktor like this, even more so when Viktor does _that_ , oh—yes, okay, he’s definitely been missing out by waiting this long to kiss his fiancé, and the thought fills him with another rush of giddiness.  They have _time_.  He wants these kisses to last, but they don’t _have_ to, because the two of them will be together today and tomorrow and all the days after that—there will be plenty more of this to come, and oh, he just wants to be this close to Viktor forever, and…

Viktor eventually breaks the kiss, but it’s only so that he can pepper Yuuri’s cheeks and forehead and nose with a flurry of little kisses too, and Yuuri laughs, blushing.  _See?_ he wants to say.  _Isn’t this a much better way to spend our time together than wallowing and drowning in guilt?_

“You mean the world to me,” Viktor whispers.  “If I let something happen to you, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.”

The implication is clear— _I nearly let something happen to you.  I can hardly live with myself for it._ —and Yuuri just shakes his head helplessly.

“You saved me,” he replies fiercely, kissing Viktor again, thinking that maybe if his voice doesn’t get it across, he can just whisper it into Viktor’s lips, over and over and over again until it clicks.  _You saved me, I love you, you saved me, I love you._

“Yuuri,” Viktor breathes between Yuuri’s frantic kisses.  “ _Yuuri.”_

“You said you didn’t think this is something I can help with,” Yuuri says, shaking his head.  Viktor’s lips are very pink.  They weren’t earlier.  This is a direct result of Yuuri kissing him so much, or of him kissing Yuuri—the point is, looking at them is doing making Yuuri’s stomach do these funny little flip-flops of excitement and affection.  “I don’t believe that.  I think you’re just too used to making yourself do everything alone, but _let me in_ , Vitya, let me help you.”

Another kiss, languorous and sweet and slow, so at odds with the desperate stirring in Yuuri’s chest.

“You know I could never turn you down, not like this,” Viktor murmurs, his voice husky with emotion.  “Yuuri, my darling, my sunshine, my heart.  I will try.  I can’t promise I’ll be any good at letting you in—as you said, I’m woefully out of practice at it—but I am yours.  Anything you want of me…”

It is around this point that Yuuri is hit by the stunning realization that _oh, Vitya is as much putty in my hands as I am in his_.  It’s awe-inspiring and humbling at once, to know how much he must mean to Viktor, to realize how much Viktor must trust him.

He takes Viktor’s hand and brings it to his chest, so that Viktor can feel his heart beating, and waits several moments, just sitting there in silence together.  Can Viktor feel the way Yuuri so desperately wants him to understand that this wasn’t his fault?

A few heartbeats pass.  Then Viktor meets Yuuri’s eyes again.

“Yuuri,” he says, quiet and intense.  “Thank you.”

Yuuri kisses the tip of his nose.  “Anything for you,” he answers gently, smiling.  Viktor wraps his arms around him and pulls him close, and Yuuri closes his eyes, winding his arms around Viktor, too.

The guilt has largely subsided.  It’s good—Yuuri can tell that, uh, _recent developments_ have improved Viktor's mood rather dramatically, and it makes him smile.  It’s not like any of his actual upset, guilty feelings can be resolved with just affection, but hopefully, over the next few days or weeks, Yuuri can help him forgive himself the way Viktor has been helping him recover in general.  At least that’s one problem mostly solved (well, not _solved_ , but he knows how to handle it, over time).

(Man, if only all his problems could be solved by reassuring and kissing Viktor.  Wouldn’t _that_ be an ideal world?)

He shifts slightly in Viktor’s arms, sparing a vague thought to the unfinished tea sitting on the coffee table in front of them, but tea can always be reheated, and there’s no place he’d rather be right now than right here, just like this.

And if that’s how they spend the rest of their afternoon, caught somewhere between gentle murmurs of comfort and soft touches and softer kisses, well… that would be just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO HOWS THAT SMOOCHIN GOING..............................  
> this chapter was summarized in my outline as simply "(ﾉ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧" and has been staring at me since the beginning. i am so gleeful to have finally gotten to this point i cannot even begin to explain it
> 
> OKAY FIRST OF ALL I HAVE SO MANY GOODIES GUYS!!!! check out [THIS](http://adreamingsongbird.tumblr.com/post/159745730390/piyo13sdoodles-do-you-ever-read-a-thing-and-then) incredible phichit by piyo, this [lovely fanmix](http://8tracks.com/eliocon/the-rules-for-lovers) by eli, [lovely comic](http://adreamingsongbird.tumblr.com/post/159665264165/letsglamourcharm-i-dont-usually-gravitate) about the end of chapter 8 by letsglamourcharm, [this](http://adreamingsongbird.tumblr.com/post/159665202640/teenthesmolbean-i-just-found-out-about-the-rules) adorable yuuri by teenthesmolbean, of course [pots's latest attempt to end my entire life](http://adreamingsongbird.tumblr.com/post/159609889110/beanpots-soooooo-chapter-8-am-i-right) over here, and finally [this](http://adreamingsongbird.tumblr.com/post/159245892715/alien-trillinator-okay-so-im-in-love-with) cute af version of viktor and yuuri's first meeting from way back in chapter one!!!!!!!! this is all so amazing and if i've missed something please please tell me because i LOVE every last thing you guys have made for me and i weep it's all so wonderful!!!!!!!! thank you guys so much!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ♥♥♥
> 
> anyway, notes time.
> 
> 1\. i wrote the entirety of the last scene listening to careless whisper on loop, except for the very first bit, which i wrote listening to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B0tWfZU0b2I) instead.
> 
> 2\. i'm so sorry to disappoint those of you hoping phichit will be going to ruthenia now :P i'm afraid he has a role to play in xian that's going to be unfolding!!! hopefully u will like it there i'm very fond of the ocs he's friends with haha 
> 
> 3\. chapter title comes from [a reference to the fic title](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MvsIigARTho) ofc. also the snippet preview for next chap below comes from [this poem](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/nothing-gold-can-stay)!!
> 
> 4\. i actually ??? do not have a lot to say this time around???? wow that's so weird, it's like my author's notes have been such undertakings of their own in the past, that's wild. i'm posting this anyway tho so there's a possibility i'll think of something else to say and come back to add it later, but yeah!!! haha that's about it!! thanks for your support, see you in two weeks!!
> 
> next time: "so dawn goes down to day; nothing gold can stay."


	10. carry you over to a new morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor and Yuuri try to handle the fallout, together. But then, the other shoe drops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for minor character death.

The morning of the court session to evaluate Lady Golovkina’s role in the assassination attempt, Yuuri wakes to sunlight streaming through open windows and a kiss pressed to his forehead.  He blinks a few times, looking up to see familiar blue eyes regarding him warmly, and vaguely registers the familiar outlines of Viktor’s bedroom.

“Good morning, darling,” Viktor smiles down at him, already dressed and ready for the day.  “It’s nine.  Care to get up?”

“Mmph,” he mumbles, not really awake enough to provide anything that qualifies as a response yet.  Viktor laughs, patting the top of his head.

“I set some water to boil for tea,” he says.  “And I sent for breakfast for two to be brought up, so it’ll be here any minute now.  Come now, I don’t want it to be cold by the time you get to it!”

Yuuri catches his hand, holds it in both of his, and sighs sleepily, letting himself slowly wake up by tracing the edges of Viktor’s fingers and the lines on his palm.  Viktor looks down at him with a warm, indulgent smile, and Yuuri toys idly with the ring he wears—it’s their engagement ring, and he wears a matching one, a symbolic piece of jewelry that seems to have gained so much meaning as of, um, yesterday’s events.

“You’re blushing,” Viktor observes, his eyes twinkling as if he knows exactly what Yuuri is thinking of.

“Don’t tease,” Yuuri complains.  “Too early for that.”

Viktor laughs again.  “Alright, alright.  I’ll tease later.”

Yuuri gives him a cross look.  “I’m divorcing you.”

“We aren’t married yet,” Viktor points out.  But he leans down and kisses Yuuri’s nose, and Yuuri can’t resist the smile that tugs at his lips.  “So.  Breakfast?”

“Alright, alright,” Yuuri sighs, and Viktor favors him with a luminous smile before he lets go of his hands and steps back to give him room to get out of bed.  Yuuri shuffles to the bathroom with a yawn, blinks blearily at his reflection, and realizes his glasses must still be on the nightstand.  Of course they are.

Oh well.  He can see well enough without them to brush his teeth, which he does, squinting at himself and his blurry scar in the mirror.  He thinks he might be growing to hate that scar.  But it’s too early to dwell on that, so he shoves the thought aside and focuses on something else.

It’s a little funny how the lines between his spaces and Viktor’s have already begun to blur, even with a few months to go until the wedding.  He has a toothbrush in Viktor’s bathroom, there’s a drawer in Viktor’s wardrobe that’s stocked with Yuuri’s pajamas and sleeping robes, and a few of his suits and ceremonial robes hang in the back of Viktor’s closet, after the number of times he’s spent the night here—and it’s much the same with Viktor’s things making homes for themselves in Yuuri’s rooms. 

He thinks he likes it, though; not only does it mean that from a practical standpoint, moving in together after the wedding won’t be that big of an issue, but also it just _feels_ nice.  They’re familiar with each other.

By the time he leaves the bathroom, feeling somewhat more awake, breakfast must have arrived, because Viktor isn’t in his bedroom, but the door to the sitting room is open, and Yuuri can feel the vague shape of his consciousness in that direction.  Wonderful.  Breakfast sounds like a good plan.

His glasses are not on the nightstand.  That’s weird.  Maybe he left them in the sitting room after all?  Last evening he _did_ eventually fall asleep cuddling with Viktor on the couch before they moved to the bed, so…

Viktor is pouring steaming water from his kettle into a teacup when Yuuri enters, wandering toward the table.  “Hello, Yuuri!” he sings.  “How does rose white tea sound for breakfast?”

“Good,” Yuuri says.  “Have you seen…”

“Ah, your glasses!”  Viktor puts the kettle down and produces them with a flourish, but instead of handing them over, he pushes them onto Yuuri’s nose himself, looking inordinately pleased.  “You left them on the coffee table yesterday.”

“Oh,” Yuuri says.  “Thanks.”

He hesitates, feeling a little shy, but… really, there’s no reason to hold back when he feels affectionate and they’re in private, right?  It always makes Viktor happy, and yesterday’s multitude of soft kisses certainly made _both_ of them happy, so… yes, there’s no reason.  He leans in and presses a quick kiss to Viktor’s cheek in thanks, then withdraws and settles into his chair on the opposite side of the little table.

Viktor beams at him and promptly hooks his foot around Yuuri’s ankle under the table.  “So sweet, Yuuri!”

“Oh, hush,” Yuuri says, because it’s too early for him to do anything but blush at the words.  He hides behind his tea, though it’s still too hot to drink, and just inhales the scented steam.  “…So, um… the court hearing is this afternoon?”

Just like that, the atmosphere shifts.  Viktor’s smile doesn’t vanish completely, but it does shrink, and something about him turns a little harder, a little sharper, more like the prince and not just the cheerful man who wakes people with forehead kisses.

“Yes,” he agrees.  “How are you feeling about it?  If you’d rather not go, you don’t have to.”

Yuuri has to admit he doesn’t really want to go—doesn’t want to have to face the people who want him dead—but the prospect of continuing to use his recovery to hide seems cowardly.  He might look weak, too, and besides, staying alone all afternoon, not knowing how it’s going or what’s being revealed, just being on his own with all his uncertainty…

“No,” he says, shaking his head quickly.  “I’d rather be with you.”

There’s a flash of surprise that quickly mellows into warmth again, and Viktor softens across the table.  “Alright,” he says.  “I only wish I could stay by your side physically, too.”

Yuuri wishes that, too, wishes he could sit on the sidelines and not have anyone’s eyes on him and just clutch Viktor’s hand for comfort until it’s all over.  But the presiding officer of the court has to oversee the hearing, of course, and everyone will be watching Yuuri, the one who was targeted—so that’s all wishful thinking, nothing more than an idle, wistful thought.

“It’s alright,” he says with a sigh.  “At least it means we have the morning and the evening to ourselves, even if the afternoon is going to be an ordeal.”

“Yes,” Viktor agrees.  He pauses, tilts his head slightly to the side, and asks, “How are you feeling today?”

Yuuri offers him a slight smile, blowing on his tea.  “A lot better,” he says.  “Still kind of tired, but I’m pretty much fine now, I think.”

“Wonderful,” Viktor says.  There’s a mild hesitation in his eyes, and Yuuri thinks with a pang of the guilt tormenting him so harshly yesterday—it’s still there, albeit faded this morning, and it hurts to know that it’s still hurting Viktor.  “After the hearing, my mother wants to meet with us both.  It’s to introduce you to your new official bodyguard—though I think you may have met her at least in passing before?  It’s Georgi’s cousin, Alina, she works in the Royal Guard.  I know you’ve met her wife, that’s the captain.”

The Captain of the Royal Guard—yes, that’s right.  Bita Sharapova.  Yuuri has met her in passing several times, though he’s never had anything beyond polite civil conversation with her.

“That’s this evening?” Yuuri asks.  “Right after the hearing, or later?”

“Later,” Viktor says as he starts to cut his omelette.  “Half past seven, to be precise, so we could potentially have dinner beforehand, if you’d like that.”

“In private?” Yuuri asks hopefully.  He still doesn’t want to deal with the media any more than he has to, and he _knows_ he’s going to be hounded for interviews during every break in the hearing.  He’s not looking forward to it.

“In private,” Viktor confirms.  “Just us, if you want, though I’m sure Mila, Yura, and Georgi would love to see you up and about properly, too.”

“Oh, yes,” Yuuri agrees.  “I’d be fine with them—just so long as we aren’t, you know… out somewhere with too many people.”

“Of course not.”  Viktor shakes his head.  “No, I think it’s better if you keep a relatively low profile for a while anyway.  It’d be safer.”

“Right,” Yuuri agrees, sighing.  Safer.  Part of him still can’t believe he really… that those assassins actually… that he truly could have _died_ the other day.  It feels like a bad dream, not reality.  How is he supposed to keep worrying about the future when he can’t wake up?

But the scar that greets him when he looks in the mirror, and the ones that he knows he’ll see on his torso when he goes to change clothes later, those beg to differ.  It was real and he’s awake, and he just has to deal with the aftermath and worry about the future alone, like he always has.

“Yuuri?”

…No, he realizes, looking up to see Viktor and all his warm concern.  Not alone.  _They_ have to deal with the aftermath and worry about the future—together.

“Sorry,” he says with a sheepish smile.  “I was just thinking.”

Viktor tilts his head curiously again, pausing with his fork dangling in midair.  It is quite unfair that he manages to be so elegant before ten in the morning.  “About what?”

Yuuri shrugs and sighs, moodily prodding at a strawberry.  “…You know,” he says at length, reluctant to actually say _thinking about how I almost died_ or even _that alleyway_ , as if saying it out loud will make it more real again.  He doesn’t _want_ to think about it.  “Stuff.  Not good stuff.  It’s too early for that stuff.”

“Good call,” Viktor says, but Yuuri can still tell he’s fighting down guilt.  That’s not good, either.  How did this go wrong so fast?  He sighs, stares at his breakfast—it’s still nice and hot, but just the thought of that alleyway and the fear and helplessness ruins his appetite.  “…Yuuri?”

“Yes?” he asks quickly, too quickly.  Viktor is looking at him again, tender and worried, and he—he just—

Viktor stands, comes around the table, and pulls him into a hug.

“Oh,” Yuuri mumbles, closing his eyes.  He’s still seated, but he wraps his arms around Viktor’s waist and presses his face into his chest, sighing, and Viktor squeezes him gently.

“You looked sad,” he says by way of explanation, as if he’s ever needed a reason to be affectionate before.  “Is this helping?”

“Yes.”  Being wrapped in Viktor’s arms just exudes whispers of complete and utter _safety_ , a feeling Yuuri has been sorely lacking for the past several days.  Sure, he hasn’t felt like he’s been unsafe, either, but he hasn’t felt as cozy and secure as he does when Viktor holds him like this.  _You feel like warmth, comfort, and safety_ , he told Viktor once, not too terribly long ago, and it’s true, now more than ever.

“I’m glad,” Viktor says.  He drops a kiss to the top of Yuuri’s head before he withdraws, though he doesn’t retreat back to his chair yet, instead kneeling and cupping Yuuri’s chin in one hand.  “Are you okay?”

“I have to be,” Yuuri says, because it’s true—he has to be okay for the hearing this afternoon.  He _has_ to be fine.

“Not what I asked,” Viktor says, gentle but firm.  “Regardless of whether you have to be or not, _are_ you okay?”

Yuuri hesitates.  “I… don’t know.”

Viktor’s face clouds, but only for a moment.  “Okay,” he says. “That’s alright.  What can I do?”

In lieu of an answer, Yuuri shuffles forward and drops to his knees, pressing his face into the crook of Viktor’s neck and clutching him close.  Viktor immediately hugs him back, comforting and grounding and tight, and Yuuri sighs, sagging against him.  What a sight they must be—two princes, one looking very much the regal part and the other still in his pajamas, both clinging to each other and kneeling on the floor next to their rapidly cooling breakfasts.

“Ah,” Viktor says.  “I can do this.”

It’s silly enough that a laugh bubbles up in Yuuri’s throat, coming out as a little giggle into Viktor’s collar.  “I told Phichit you give good hugs,” he blurts out, and then blushes again as he realizes what he just said.

“Did you?” Viktor asks, and while the teasing grin is in his voice again, Yuuri finds that he doesn’t really want the floor to open up and swallow him.  It’s _true_ after all.  Viktor _does_ give good hugs.  “Why, thank you.  I’ll have to make sure to hug you more often.”

“You should do that,” Yuuri agrees.  Hugs are nice.  He likes hugs.  Especially Viktor’s hugs, _especially_ on mornings when he’s still kind of upset about, uh, almost getting murdered in the street.  Huh… when phrased that way, it’s pretty easy to see why that’d be upsetting.

Anyway.

“Should… we should eat,” he says reluctantly.  Honestly, if it was up to him, they’d both still be in bed, cuddling like they did all last night, and also quite possibly still asleep, but if they have to be awake, they might as well eat the breakfast that was sent up for them.

“Yes, we should,” Viktor agrees, pulling back enough to hold Yuuri at arm’s length.  “Better?  At least a little bit?”

“A little bit,” Yuuri nods.  Viktor smiles, leaning in to kiss his forehead, and then stands, pulling Yuuri up with him.

“Glad to hear it,” he says, finally going back around to his side of the table.  “So!  Shall we talk politics, or shall we talk about nicer things?”

“I’d _like_ to talk nice things,” Yuuri sighs, “but I have a feeling we probably should talk politics, just to get it all out of the way.  I’m afraid I’ve fallen a little out of the loop over the past few days.  I, um, haven’t really… checked any news or anything.”

“Ah,” Viktor says.  “That’s not a problem.  I can tell you everything you need to know, especially for today.  First of all, the most straightforward thing—I interrogated all three assassins, and while they all named Svetlana Golovkina as their employer, when I asked for specific details of how she contacted and hired them, not every story matched up.  In addition, theirs are the only accounts we have to corroborate this story, so I’m afraid our evidence is not particularly damning.  She will probably not be convicted, in the end.”

Yuuri nods.  That doesn’t surprise him—actually tracing back and tying something as large as an assassination attempt to any member of court would need a huge body of evidence, just to get around all the corruption, too.  “I expected as much.”

Besides, with holes in the assassins’ stories?  As chilling as it is to think about, he’s pretty sure that all that means is that the real person who wanted him dead is still out there and just as mysterious as ever.

“Yes,” Viktor nods.  “That being said, there _is_ enough evidence that her reputation will be quite smeared after today.  I expect we’ll be seeing many of her supporters drift away in the aftermath, though I’m sure some will remain staunch.”

“So Ivanovich will no longer have to contend with her for the spot of chief opposition leader in court,” Yuuri summarizes, doing his best to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.  “Fabulous.”

“I love it when you’re not awake enough to hide your sassy commentary,” Viktor says, flashing Yuuri that stunning smile again.  “But yes, that would be correct, unfortunately.  I suppose we always knew the equilibrium couldn’t last forever, however nice it was while we had it.”

Yuuri sighs, picking at his omelette.  “Yeah.”

Viktor pauses, his smile fading, and his brows knit together in that pained look again.  “Yuuri…”

“I’m sorry,” he blurts.  “I’m just—it’s a lot.  I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me,” Viktor says quietly, bewildered, and hooks his foot around Yuuri’s ankle again, caressing the back of his calf lightly.  “Just tell me what I can do.  Please?”

Yuuri lets out a frustrated breath and yanks off his glasses to bury his face in his hands.  “I don’t know!  I don’t—I don’t know what I need right now, I’m _sorry!”_

“It’s okay!” Viktor tries to reassure, but Yuuri doesn’t look up.

He’s just overwhelmed by—by _all_ of it.  There’s too much nervous energy thrumming through his body and thinking about everything that’s still going on, thinking about this cascade of events that’s spiraling so rapidly out of his control, just makes it worsen.

He wants to move, he wants to get out of here, he wants to dance, he wants to _flee_ —

“Spar with me,” he begs.  “Please.”

When Viktor is silent, Yuuri manages to look up, peeping uncertainly over his fingertips.  Uncertainty greets him, dripping from Viktor’s aura and shining in his eyes, and behind it is the guilt again.

“I… are you sure you’re feeling up to it?” he asks carefully.  “I don’t want you to—I don’t want to hurt you—and it’s—”

“I promise I know my own limits,” Yuuri says desperately.  “Please, Vitya, I just—I want to stop feeling so _helpless_ and stupid and defenseless like this, please, there’s time before the hearing, we don’t have to be out there for long, I just… please, I need to do something, I think…”

Viktor sighs.  “Okay,” he says.  “Please eat a little more, though, you’ve hardly touched your breakfast and while I know a heavy meal before exercise is a bad plan, not eating anything isn’t good for you, either.”

Yuuri mirrors his sigh, picking up a grape.  “You’re right,” he admits.  “Sorry for freaking out like that, I’m just, um… yeah.  You can go on, if you want.  Sorry for interrupting…”

“You don’t have to apologize, Yuuri,” Viktor says quietly.  “Not to me.  Never for this.”

Honestly, this damn table needs to stop being between them, because if they’re going to be having a conversation about emotional things such as Yuuri and his apparent inability to deal with his recent traumatic experience, there should not be barriers preventing him from clinging to Viktor tightly enough to feel his heartbeat thumping away steadily and reassuringly in his chest.

“Okay,” he breathes.  It takes a conscious effort to swallow another _I’m sorry_ , but he does his best to push it away, focusing instead on his breakfast.  “Okay.  I… okay.”

Frustrated with himself and also, bizarrely, with the table and its unfortunate location, he resorts to empathy, reaching out to Viktor’s concerned mind to send him a little brush of affection, an unspoken _thank you_ or perhaps the mental impression of another kiss.  Viktor sits up a little straighter, his eyes widening, and then he smiles softly but radiantly.

“You are wonderful, you know.”

Yuuri bites his lip, looking down, and takes a deep, shaky breath to stabilize himself.  “Thank you.”

Eventually, after what feels like far too much effort just to make himself eat breakfast, Yuuri heads back to his rooms to get something appropriate to wear (perhaps he should make a note to leave some exercise clothes along with the pajamas in that drawer) while Viktor excuses himself to go change from formal attire into something light and proper for sparring too.

Yuuri stares blankly at his closet for several moments.  All the colors and prints blend together and he doesn’t _care_ , not when he still just wants to run away, but he can’t, and it’s with the ease of familiarity that he resigns himself to forcing himself to go through the motions of a proper prince anyway.  Shirt, pants, contact lenses, exercise bag, Phichit’s knife, phone…

Once he’s fairly confident he has everything he needs, he takes a deep breath alone in his bedroom, relishing the solitude, and then heads back to Viktor’s suite.

Viktor greets him with a kiss when he pulls him inside, tugging him into a gentle embrace and a soft press of his lips before he steps back, smiling slightly.  It isn’t entirely a happy smile.  “There you are!  All ready to go?”

“Yeah,” Yuuri nods.  He reaches for Viktor’s hand, intertwining their fingers, and realizes with some surprise that he’s really, really looking forward to sparring.  It’ll help with all this nervous energy, and he’s sure it’ll make him feel less helpless and useless, too.

“I was thinking we should go to a more private courtyard,” Viktor says, and instead of heading back toward the door to the hallway, he leads Yuuri further into his rooms, stopping in front of a bookshelf.  “Is that alright with you?”

“Yes, of course,” Yuuri says quickly, relieved.  “Privacy sounds… sounds really good.  Thank you for being so thoughtful.”

Another little sad smile.  “Of course,” Viktor echoes.  He sighs, runs his free hand through his hair, and then pulls out three books consecutively.  Ah, Yuuri realizes—another secret passage.  Directly into the Crown Prince’s sitting room?

As something in the shelf _clicks_ and it settles back into the wall slightly, Viktor catches Yuuri’s look.

“Don’t worry,” he says.  “This one connects only to my mother’s chambers and to the bricked-off courtyard in the corner of the east wing.  There are no other offshoot tunnels.  I think there used to be some, but they’ve been blocked with concrete for longer than I’ve been alive.”

“Oh,” Yuuri says softly.  Viktor pushes the shelf aside, and it slides into a hollow in the wall, revealing a set of stairs down into a long hallway extending into darkness; Yuuri carefully enters first, waiting at the bottom of the steps, and Viktor pulls the shelf back into place behind himself with another _click_.  Within a few moments, they’re walking hand-in-hand, the uneven floor illuminated by the flashlights of both of their phones.

At one point, the floor gets much smoother and the ceiling higher, and Yuuri looks around in surprise.  It’s very dusty, but this looks like a proper hallway.

“I think this was a part of the main palace, many years ago,” Viktor comments offhandedly.  “But one of my however-many-greats-grandparents decided that they wanted the courtyard to be only accessible from the Royal Suite, I suppose, so it was sealed off.  The passage to my rooms is newer, by comparison—but both of them are older than my grandfather, so I suppose it doesn’t matter much anyway.”

The history of this building is both fascinating and a little ridiculous.  Yuuri would be more interested if he wasn’t just itching to be out in the sunlight already, with air to breathe and room to move.  He’s sure he would love to hear Viktor talk about the architectural history of Petersburg Palace for hours, in other circumstances, but as is, the walls are looming too close, threatening to smother him.

Luckily, somehow Viktor seems to sense that, adding “We’re nearly there; don’t worry, darling,” before he squeezes Yuuri’s hand gently and ever so slightly picks up his pace.

Yuuri appreciates him more than he will ever know.

Soon, they emerge through a small door into a courtyard that’s tucked away within the palace itself—Yuuri recognizes it, now that they’re here.  He’s seen it from windows before, but has never been able to figure out how to access it, which he thought was quite a pity, because it’s always looked like such a nice place to relax, with the wildflowers and overgrown climbing roses all around.  It’s much smaller than the outer courtyards, mostly shadowed by the walls on all four sides, but it certainly seems much more intimate.

“It’s nice that it’s all wildflowers and doesn’t need much upkeep,” Viktor says. “The gardening staff don’t come here, of course.”

“Who does maintain it?” Yuuri asks curiously.  He can’t quite imagine either Viktor or the Queen kneeling in the dirt to pull weeds.  “Does anyone?”

“There’s earth elemental spells that just keep the plants in check,” Viktor answers.  “The same ancestor of mine who bricked off the courtyard put them in place, and they feed from the general energy of the spells on the castle in general, so they haven’t needed to be much replenished.”

All spells fade with time, but Yuuri supposes that in the grander scheme of things, the spells to maintain a small garden in a private courtyard aren’t the highest priority, especially when they’re hooked into a long-lived and often-retouched framework such as that of Petersburg Palace.  They might need maintenance at some point, but it’s not really a concern, and won’t be for several years at the least.

“Anyway,” Viktor says, waving his hand as he leads Yuuri down a stepping-stone path past some rosebushes, “there’s a spot I’ve used to practice when I wanted seclusion over here in the corner.  There’s some practice blades of different lengths—I think there should be a knife that’s similar in size to yours, though the weight might be a touch different—oh, by the way, I keep forgetting to ask.  What _was_ the shadow spell on your knife, if you don’t mind talking about it?”

He stops, looking back at Yuuri with curiosity but also a hint of apprehension, like he’s not sure he should’ve brought it up so casually, and Yuuri sighs and bites his lip.  He doesn’t like thinking about that day at all, and remembering how he had just squeezed his eyes shut in preparation for a blow that never came is … kind of upsetting?  He’d been _so scared_ …

And then there was a pool of blood and a _severed hand_ and he’s pretty sure he will never get that mental image out of his head for the rest of his _life_ , and…

But the spell.  Aside from everything else, he knows what the spell did.  Phichit told him, specifically, and that’s what Viktor wants to know, so with a shaky breath, Yuuri repeats what Phichit said, then stares at the worn carvings on the stepping stone under his feet.  Was that a butterfly at some point, years ago?

“…I see,” Viktor says thoughtfully.  “Thank you for telling me.  That’s one hell of a spell; consider me impressed.”  He squeezes Yuuri’s hand again, then reconsiders as if that wasn’t enough and lifts it to his lips to press a soft, apologetic kiss to each of his fingers.  “Anyway.  Let’s not dwell on that, sweetheart.  You still want to spar, right?”

“Yes, please,” Yuuri says quickly, grateful for the subject change.  It’s not like that whole thing hasn’t been on his mind all morning anyway, so Viktor bringing it up didn’t shock him or anything, but it’ll be good to think about something else.  Sparring sounds good, because it should reassure him that he isn’t as helpless as he feels.

(Plus, he needs to make sure that if he happens to find himself in a situation where he has to act fast again, he won’t just panic and freeze up at the sight of a blade coming at him.)

Viktor strokes his thumb over Yuuri’s knuckles and pulls him along again, until they reach the far corner of the courtyard.  It’s closed off on two sides by the massive stone walls of the palace, and on the other two by tall, thorny hedges, and in the center is a decently wide square of hard-packed dirt.  To one side is a tall, magically sealed armoire of sorts, and Viktor heads for it, so Yuuri follows.

Inside, it turns out, is a collection of a few blades—not as varied of a selection as is available in the armory by the main sparring grounds, but there are ample weapons here, too, all obviously dulled for practice.  Viktor selects a rapier for himself and steps aside to allow Yuuri room to access the knives.  The first one is too heavy for what he’s used to, but the second one he picks up fits comfortably in his hand, not too dissimilar to Phichit’s.

After some warm-up stretches, Yuuri checks the time.  “I think we have around an hour before we should go clean up and get ready for the hearing,” he says, and Viktor nods.  Yuuri takes a moment to appreciate him as he stands there, elegant as always, the blunt rapier resting comfortably in his hand as he tosses his head to get the hair away from his eyes.

“That’s more than enough time, yes?”

“I think so.”  Yuuri lets out a breath, then walks a few paces away and takes a starting stance.  “Ready?”

“Ready,” Viktor confirms, raising his blade. 

They circle each other carefully, and Yuuri can feel some of his nervous energy dissipating into his movements.  It’s much easier to channel it when he’s watching Viktor like a hawk, waiting for that first strike, and staying light on his feet, ready to flee.

Honestly, anxiety and its need for a constant fight-or-flight response might even be a little helpful when sparring.  He used to train with Phichit back in Hinomoto, when things were tense for no reason.  He’s glad Viktor is here for him, now.

Viktor lunges first, a simple slice, and Yuuri’s reflexes take over as he dances aside and ducks away.  He twists from the sidestep into a thrust of his own, and Viktor parries, catching the dulled knife blade on his rapier with a metallic, echoing _clang_.

Yuuri laughs.  He can’t help it.  It feels _good_ to move, to dance and to fight without fear of being hurt.

And then it’s on in earnest—they dodge and parry and slash and stab.  Minutes fly by like hours in this frantic dance, full of bright-eyed anticipation between movements.  Viktor moves with deadly, fluid grace, but as exertion makes their hearts pound and their breaths quicken, Yuuri can see him start to smile, to laugh, as well.

He loses himself in the match, gritting his teeth as Viktor slowly drives him backward.  His muscles are already aching, sore and protesting, but it feels so good to push himself to his limits like this that he just laughs again, until Viktor makes a sudden lunge at his knees and he yelps, barely jumping back in time, and—

Yuuri finds himself with his back against the wall, pinned, with the tip of Viktor’s rapier pointed at his throat.  Viktor stares at him down its length, his eyes piercingly blue, and Yuuri swallows hard, finding his voice with difficulty.

“Damn,” he manages, eyes wide and heart still pounding with the exhilaration of the match.  “You’re even better than Yura said.”

The rapier quivers, and then it falls aside completely as Viktor lets out a low chuckle.  A light breeze stirs through the courtyard, rustling his hair, and Yuuri has the urge to run his hands through it like he did yesterday.

“Oh, Yuuri,” he says, an odd, low note in his voice.  “As if I could ever bring myself to hurt you.”

And then he drops the blade completely, and Yuuri’s knife falls from his hand to the ground, forgotten, as Viktor surges forward and kisses him hard, one hand cupping his jaw and the other sliding into his hair like it belongs there, pressing him even closer.

“Vitya,” Yuuri breathes in the heartbeat between heated kisses, not caring that they’re both sweaty and out of breath from exertion. 

This is—he just wants Viktor closer, and it’s just them and there are giddy butterflies threatening to burst out of him as laughter, because that hard knot of anxiety is _finally_ gone, and he’s happy, he’s happy he’s so much happier now—another kiss, and another, and really, it’s a good thing that Viktor has him pinned between himself and the wall, because…

Well, because frankly, Yuuri isn’t one hundred percent sure that his knees would support him if he was supposed to be standing on his own right now.  “ _Vitya.”_

“You’re so beautiful,” Viktor whispers, kissing him more gently.  He still has Yuuri pinned between himself and the wall, and Yuuri wraps his arms around his waist and presses him closer, just wanting to erase the distance between them.  “I love making you smile.”

Yuuri has to break the kiss after that to laugh, ducking his head for a moment.  “I don’t know how well kissing me senseless against a wall works for that.  It’s kind of hard to _smile_ properly when you’re—you know, doing _that.”_

Viktor laughs, a low, satisfied chuckle that Yuuri can feel in his chest.  “Senseless, hmm?” he croons, tipping Yuuri’s chin up.  “But you _are_ smiling, dearest.”

Yuuri feels his face heat, and it’s not just exertion this time.  “Stop that,” he complains.  “You’re making me self-conscious!  Of course I’d smile now that you’re _talking_ about it!”

“Adorable,” Viktor coos, grinning now, and Yuuri rolls his eyes.

“I’d tell you to shut up,” he says, “but I know exactly what you’d—”

“Make me,” Viktor interrupts, quirking one eyebrow just so.

Yuuri groans.  “If you weren’t so irritatingly wonderful, I would refuse to kiss you right now out of spite and stubbornness,” he informs him, but because he’s still riding the high of having vanquished his anxiety by sparring it out into the ground (and also the high of being kissed senseless immediately afterwards, though he’s not planning on ever admitting that he actually did go a little weak in the knees), he can’t resist pulling Viktor into another kiss.

“Irritatingly wonderful, hmm,” Viktor repeats, as if musing to himself more than anything, when Yuuri breaks that one.  Yuuri decides it’s really not in his best interests to let him dwell on that phrase, so there’s, well, really no alternative and he just has to kiss him again, right?  Right.  Of course.

Viktor hums appreciatively, and Yuuri feels himself melting all over again as Viktor’s fingers scrunch through his hair and slide down to stroke the back of his neck.  Honestly, he is so irresistible it’s plain _unfair_ , and it’s even worse that he seems to _know_ it.  Who told him what he does to Yuuri?  He shouldn’t have that kind of power.

But he does, and Yuuri can’t help the breathless laughter that bubbles up in his throat and spills out until he has to pull back, leaning his head against the wall.

“What?” Viktor asks curiously, nuzzling his cheek and kissing his temple.  “You seem amused.”

“Not really,” Yuuri admits, caressing Viktor’s cheek fondly.  “Just happy.  I feel a lot better than I did earlier.  Thank you.”

Viktor softens, leaning in to press his forehead to Yuuri’s with a warm, luminous smile.  “You’re welcome, darling.  I’m glad this helped you.”

Yuuri kisses him again, but this time it’s just a quick, gentle peck, a touch more than anything.  Viktor’s kisses are a mixture of heady, bubbly, intoxicating exhilaration and the simple feeling of comfort and home, and Yuuri can’t get enough of them, of just being close to him in general.  It’s just… good.

He reaches up to stroke aside the bangs that keep flopping in front of Viktor’s eyes.  “How about you?  You seemed kind of sad earlier, but … to me, at least, you feel better now.  Right?”

Viktor nods, closing his eyes and leaning his face into Yuuri’s hand.  “I do.  Earlier, I… suppose I was still feeling the same things we talked about yesterday.  I—I don’t want you to have to comfort _me_ over what happened to you, though, Yuuri.  That doesn’t seem fair.”

Yuuri hesitates, then sighs.  “Vitya… it’s not that I’m… I don’t feel like you’re burdening me with it or anything.  I don’t like the fact that you blame yourself for something that wasn’t your fault, but that doesn’t mean I don’t—I still want to know if you’re upset, okay?  It’s not that I don’t want to hear it, it’s just that I want you to be happy and not to beat yourself up for it.”

“Right, yes, I know,” Viktor sighs.  He turns his head slightly to press a kiss into Yuuri’s palm, and Yuuri smiles at him, even though his eyes are still closed.  “Sorry.  I told you I’m quite terrible at this whole ‘opening up about my problems’ thing, yes?”

Yuuri laughs softly, stroking his thumb over Viktor’s cheekbone.  (He’s so pretty.  If possible, he’s even prettier up close, especially after being thoroughly kissed.  It’s incredibly unfair.)  “You definitely mentioned it,” he says, kissing the corner of Viktor’s mouth.  “It’s just something we’ll have to work on together.”

Viktor nods.  Then he opens his eyes and pins Yuuri with that ice-blue gaze again, tilting his head slightly.  “On that note, how’s the katsudon index looking now?”

“Below a five, definitely,” Yuuri answers promptly, feeling a little proud that he’s able to say that without lying about it.  “I think maybe a three right now?  It’ll probably go back up when it’s time for the hearing, but… right now, I feel pretty okay.”

“I’m glad,” Viktor says.  He steals another slow kiss, and Yuuri can feel him smiling.  It’s good, he thinks.  Really, this is less of a kiss and more of two smiles just pressed together, but it’s good nonetheless.

“Me too,” he agrees.  “…So, um… on the note of the hearing, we still don’t have to go inside for another few minutes, right?”

“I set an alarm on my phone,” Viktor says.  “So yes, we still have a couple of minutes; an hour hasn’t passed yet.”

“Oh, good,” Yuuri says.  Viktor grins, and they don’t do a whole lot of talking after that.

* * *

Katsudon looks like the picture of poise and elegance, with his hair neatly slicked back, his formal robes impeccably draped about his shoulders, and his hands folded demurely in his lap.  He has his ceremonial silver circlet on, too—the formal, elaborate one that’s fashioned after twisted vines complete with bejeweled cherry blossoms, not just the simple one for day-to-day affairs—and despite the new scar sitting angrily on his cheek, he looks utterly untouchable. 

He’s not like Viktor’s ethereal, intimidating presence; he has something closer to a grounded, worldly perfection, if that makes any sense whatsoever, and while it’s very different from Viktor’s image, it is no less regal.  He is every inch a prince, and then some.

All of that, and yet Yuri _knows_ he’s faking it.  He’s been faking it this entire time.

Right now, Viktor is talking—he’s bringing the hearing to a close, announcing that overall, the Queen and her court have seen insufficient evidence to convict Lady Golovkina of a crime as heinous as hiring assassins to attempt to murder Prince Yuuri Katsuki of Hinomoto, the representative of the Katsuki family and of the Rutheno-Hinomotan Alliance, blah blah blah. 

Katsudon takes this news in stride—he must have expected it; all of them did—but at this point, the end of the hearing isn’t really what Yuri is concerned about.  It’s all just a publicity game, anyway, just a way for all those reporters crowding the ends of the Queen’s audience chamber to get their fix and go out to tell everyone else _hey, jack shit got done in Ruthenia today, pay me for telling you that, you fuckwads_.

And that’s what Yuri is more worried about.  Uh, that is—he’s not _worried_ , but it _is_ a slight reason for concern, and—actually, fuck this, he’s worried. 

Why?

Because Katsudon is faking and he might be doing a good job of it, but the second Viktor taps his gavel and declares the hearing over, those reporters are going to _pounce_ , and they’re gonna rip Katsudon apart.

From innocuous questions like _How is your recovery going_ to more incriminating ones like _What precautions do you think should have been taken?_ to downright loaded and unfair ones such as _Do you believe Lady Golovkina was behind the attack and that the Nikiforovs should have pushed harder to prosecute her today?_ , they’re just waiting to sink their claws into him and rend and pull until there’s nothing left.  It always happens after events like this; Yuri’s seen nobles get hounded and pushed into breakdowns on camera after far less stressful things than assassination attempts—it’s all a game, it’s all a stupid, fucking, cruel power game!

And that’s why he has to get Katsudon, stupid helpless impeccably-fake Katsudon, out of here before he gets dragged into the lion’s den.

At least he knows Katsudon isn’t stupid.  If Yuri’s seen it happen before, there’s no way Katsudon hasn’t, even if the way they hold court over in Hinomoto is different.  Katsudon will be looking for ways out of lingering here, too—Viktor probably has something up his sleeve, no doubt, but he still has to stay behind and talk to Aunt Vasilisa, which means that the something up his sleeve might just be relying on Yuri to do the work for him, because Viktor is an ass like that.

Anyway.  The point is, Katsudon needs an excuse to get out of the room quickly, and lucky for him, Yuri can give him one.

“…and thus, the Crown does not see sufficient evidence to find Lady Svetlana Golovkina guilty of conspiring to assassinate Prince Katsuki Yuuri.  That being said, a warning must still be issued, because while at this time evidence remains inconclusive, should additional findings emerge, a second trial may yet be brought forth, and as of this hearing, Lady Golovkina is not off the list of suspects,” Viktor is saying, his voice ringing through the room. 

He adjusts to having the crowd in his thrall so easily sometimes Yuri forgets that there are spells to magnify the sound of his voice, because it’s as if Viktor thrives in the spotlight so naturally he might have been born there.  Stupid Viktor.

Yuri tunes him out again, instead scanning the room before he lets his gaze linger on Katsudon again.  Katsudon continues to look at Viktor as he keeps talking, except for once, when his eyes flick to the crowd of media people blocking the main doors—and there it is, the nervousness of a cornered animal.  Hah. 

They can _try_ cornering him, but if they think they’re getting around Yuri when he’s got shit to do, then man, do _they_ have another goddamn think coming.

When Viktor finally, _finally_ gets around to closing his final remarks—Yuri only starts listening again when he hears the words “We thank you all for attending this hearing”—everyone in the room shifts, and the sounds of rustling papers and clothing echo through the chamber.  Yuri stares meaningfully at Katsudon until he manages to catch his eye, then stares meaningfully some more so that hopefully Katsudon will stay put and not let himself get dragged off to an interview before Yuri gets to him.

_Rap, rap_ goes Viktor’s gavel, and like a coiled spring, Yuri all but launches himself from his chair.  There’s already a crowd forming between him and Katsudon, but he uses his credentials as Second Prince of Ruthenia (and when that doesn’t work, his elbows) to make people get out of his way until he’s in front of Katsudon, who is doing a damn good job of making “deer-in-the-headlights” look like “gracious if mildly flustered”.

“Prince Katsuki!  What are your thoughts on today’s hearing?  Do you think the Nikiforovs were too lax to push for a full prosecution?” someone is asking.  Yuri maybe kind of accidentally steps on their foot as he shoves his way past the reporters swarming the area.

“Hey, Prince Katsuki,” he says, loud enough for all of them to hear.  “I want a word with you.  In private.”

“Oh—of course, Prince Plisetsky,” Katsudon says, blinking at him, and then he offers an apologetic smile to the reporters.  “I’m sorry—I will be releasing a personal statement later today, but it appears I have to go now.”

He’s so polite and likable in front of the cameras.  What a good act.

Yuri leads him away from the crowd but doesn’t say a word as they walk through the room, putting on an act of his own.  Everyone knows him as the kind of brash princeling who’s still learning or whatever, but he can wear the mask of court just as well as the rest of them.  Sure, maybe he doesn’t _like_ it, and it doesn’t feel natural like Viktor makes it look, but he can fucking do it, and there’s no doubt that he’s second-in-line to the throne as he makes use of every one of his one-hundred-and-sixty-two-point-five centimeters of height to imperiously sweep Katsudon out the door.

It’s not until they’ve gotten several corners and hallways deep into the Royal Family’s residential wing that either of them speaks.  Katsudon breaks the silence first, as their brisk pace finally slows to a shuffle.

“Thank you for the rescue, Yura,” he says gratefully, finally sounding a little rattled.  “That was, um… stressful.”

“Yeah, well, you owe me now,” Yuri answers.  “Anyway, come on.  We’re having dinner with Georgi and Mila.  I guess Viktor can come too, provided you aren’t gonna just make gooey eyes and pine at each other across the table.”

And then, for some horrifying reason, Katsudon _blushes._

Yuri stares.

“Oh—um—I think we’re done pining,” Katsudon says, his hands flying up to his cheeks.  Yuri gapes at him incredulously.  Done pining?  Does that mean—

“No _way_ ,” he says.  “You two finally got your shit together and he _hasn’t_ been being obnoxious about it?  _When?”_

“Um,” Katsudon mumbles into his hands.  “Last night.”

Oh.  Yuri sobers again.  That would explain why Viktor hasn’t been being obnoxious about it—there hasn’t been time, and other issues were more pressing.  Everyone’s been out of it since the assassination attempt last week.  Viktor has been distant, Katsudon was obviously in various states of recovery, Georgi has been worried sick, and Mila’s… Mila’s been stressed to hell and back.  It makes Yuri want to go out of the city to the family estate to see Grandpa and get away from court for a while.

But whatever.  He shakes his head and scoffs to let Katsudon know that he does _not_ give a fuck about his and Viktor’s love life, then tugs his sleeve.

“C’mon,” he says.  “Mila’s been freaking out about stuff, so we’re meeting in my sitting room for board games, and I’m gonna kick both of your asses.”

“Okay,” Katsudon says.  He drops his hands back to his sides and blows out a breath.  “...Thanks again, Yura.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Yuri waves a hand.  “Like I said, you owe me one.”

“I do,” Katsudon agrees, and smiles.

* * *

 

The Queen has two studies.  One of them is the elaborate, grand, and imposing one where she spends her time receiving private guests and holding formal meetings; the other is the smaller, cozier one where she discusses strategy and politics with Viktor, or sometimes has tea with Yuuri, or sighs and reminds Yura to please watch his mouth around members of court.

Right now, there are five people gathered in this second study—Viktor, Yuuri, the captain of the guard (Bita, as she prefers to be called) and her wife (Alina, also known as Yuuri’s new bodyguard), and of course, the Queen herself.

Since this is not the most formal of meetings, Viktor lets himself lounge indolently on the chaise, even draping his arm about Yuuri’s shoulders and giving him a little squeeze.  (He likes holding Yuuri, what can he say?)

Yuuri glances at him and smiles slightly, then turns his attention back to the others.

“Thank you very much for your service and your dedication,” he says to the Sharapovas, standing side-by-side at attention.

“Of course, Your Highness,” Alina says, and she drops the stoicism of professionality to give him a reassuring smile.  “It’s what we’re here for.  I assure you I will do everything within my power to protect you.”

Viktor nods to himself.  The Sharapovas have been in his family’s employ for a long time.  He trusts them—they’re the highest-ranking members of the Royal Guard, and he’s known them for years longer than anyone else on the guard staff.  If he has to entrust Yuuri to anyone, Alina would be near the top of the list anyway.

He has to admit, he’s glad that Alina wasn’t assigned a separate rank after all, like Bita was.  It leaves her perfectly available to take care of Yuuri, instead of any of the newer members of the Royal Guard.  He doesn’t know them as well, and it certainly never hurts to be careful in circumstances like these.

“Thank you,” Yuuri says again.  He ducks his head slightly, as if he’s—as if he’s _ashamed_ of himself, for having been attacked, and of course he is.  Viktor stifles an internal sigh and taps his fingers along the top of Yuuri’s arm, a silent _I see what you’re doing_ , and Yuuri heaves a sigh of his own.

“I’m glad the two of you seem to be getting along,” the Queen cuts in from behind her desk.  She leans forward, fingers steepled, and forges on.  “However, there are other important things we must discuss, so—Sharapovas, dismissed.  Please wait outside.  There are things I must talk over with my princes.”

Both Alina and Bita salute sharply.  “Yes, Your Majesty,” they say, and pivoting on their heels, they walk out of the study together.  The Queen waits until the door has clicked shut behind them to speak.

“I have received some rather troubling intelligence,” she says brusquely, launching straight into it.  Viktor frowns.  What _else_ is going on?  “Lady Babicheva supposedly overheard a disquieting conversation in the small library in the north wing—I will note that we have no way of corroborating what she heard, though she has given us no reason to mistrust her in the past—between Lords Ivanovich and Petrov.”

Ah.  Those two bastards.  Delightful.

Beside him, Yuuri shifts uncomfortably, but he doesn’t speak, so Viktor files away a mental note to prod him later and turns his attention back to his mother.

“Apparently, the two of them were discussing what sounded suspiciously like a plot involving high treason,” she says, and though her face is stoic, Viktor can’t help but notice the caution in her eyes.  “They seem to intend to put it into action should we sign trade accords with Vespuccia.”

“What do we know about the actual plot?” Viktor asks.  If they have a timeframe, they must have a plan, as well, and as loath as he is to admit it, Ivanovich is quite the intelligent man.  A schemer.  They would do well not to underestimate him.

“Not much, I’m afraid,” his mother sighs.  “The details Lady Babicheva gave to Duchess Baranovskaya were rather scant.”  Her voice takes on a dry tone.  “Apparently I need an ‘intervention’ for my rampant disrespect of Ruthenia.”

Viktor snorts.

“Besides that, however,” she continues, growing somber once more, “there was also a mention of someone with formidable skill in blood magic, talk of molding Yuri Plisetsky into the proper ruler they want, and… preventing you, Vitya, from ever taking the throne.”

There’s a heartbeat of silence.

“Well,” Viktor says lightly, “Ivanovich wants me dead.  That’s not very surprising, frankly; I could have told you that purely from how constipated he looks every time I talk to him.”

More silence.  He stifles a sigh.  Really, he should have _known_ that neither his mother nor Yuuri would laugh at that joke.  Too bad Yura isn’t here— _he_ would’ve appreciated it.

Which brings him to another point.

“Um… but what about Yura?”

A point which Yuuri, apparently, beat him to.  He’s pale-faced behind his glasses, and Viktor can’t help but pull him a little closer, trying to offer comfort.  Why does this have him so shaken?  It’s not the first time anyone has ever mentioned treason around them, and it certainly won’t be the last.

Yuuri leans into his side, but his eyes remain on the Queen, full of worry.  He’s so caring.  If they weren’t sitting in front of his mother, Viktor would want to tell him how wonderful his loving heart is and then possibly kiss him for it, too, before going back to worrying, but as is, that would probably be a little bit awkward, so he refrains.

(There’s always later for that, anyway.)

“He’s been their pet project for a while now,” Queen Vasilisa admits, and Viktor returns his attention to the conversation at hand.  “He’s aware of his position as second prince and future heir.  We keep him in the loop on these things, but I think in this case, I will grant his request to invite Prince Altin for a few weeks at the end of this summer. 

“Prince Altin’s presence will provide Yura a good reason to be away from court often, and a buffer between himself and the rest of the nobility, and of course Yura is going to Qazrazi in the autumn, so I’m not worried about him for now.  This plot is most likely supposed to take place before the wedding, so if we keep Yura relatively safe until then, he should be fine.”

It’s reassuring, and Viktor can tell Yuuri feels a little better upon hearing it, because a little of the tension in his shoulders dissipates, and he sags back into Viktor’s hold a little more.

“He’ll be glad to hear that,” he murmurs, smiling slightly.  “That he can invite Prince Altin over, officially.”

“Yes,” Queen Vasilisa smiles back.  “Prince Altin has been a good friend to our Yura.  I can only hope they remain close as the years go by.  It could be good for both of our countries.”

“What about the blood magic?” Viktor asks.  “Do you know of any spells that might help with high treason?  I can’t think of any off the top of my head, but then again, it’s not exactly my specialty.”

The Queen purses her lips.  “I can think of a few difficult spells that could be adapted to nefarious purposes without too much difficulty,” she says, “but I’m not sure which of those they might be planning to use, or why.  As far as I’m aware, if they want to try to kill you, there are far easier ways than any of the spells blood magic provides—the higher-level spells especially require direct contact or even access to a subject’s blood, which would be a bit difficult for them to acquire, so I have to admit I’m at a bit of a loss.”

“Um, not to interrupt,” Yuuri cuts in softly, “but… ah… well, do you have any idea who might be involved in this plot?  Because, um…”

He glances to Viktor as if seeking encouragement to go on, and Viktor smiles reassuringly and squeezes his shoulder.  He has a feeling Yuuri is thinking of the “bad feeling” he mentioned yesterday—Viktor hasn’t had the chance to mull it over or properly discuss it with the Queen on his own.

Yuuri takes a deep breath.  “I don’t know if this is related or not,” he says uncertainly, “but I’ve been feeling like something is… off.  Empathically speaking, I mean.  I—I know that’s incredibly vague, and I don’t have a lot to go on, but, um… it’s just a feeling like a lot of people are being dishonest or maybe intending harm?  Not necessarily to me, but…”

Queen Vasilisa’s eyes narrow.  “Explain yourself, Prince Katsuki.”

Yuuri squirms a little bit under her scrutiny.  If circumstances were any less serious than a discussion of potential treason, Viktor would tease him for being so intimidated by his own future mother-in-law again.

“Well, it’s… very hard to pin down,” he eventually says.  “For a while, I, um… I thought it was just my anxiety disorder?  And moving getting to me?  But sort of recently I’ve realized it… isn’t.  I’d never felt anything like this before I came here, that’s why it took me so long to recognize it.  It’s, um… well, it’s like people are hiding malicious intent, like I said.  Only it feels like a lot of people doing it, and it’s hard for me to narrow down who makes me feel like that because court is so full of so many people in such close proximity, but… but I do know Ivanovich and Petrov both give me that feeling.”

“Hm.”  The Queen hums thoughtfully to herself, idly tapping a finger to her chin.  “Interesting.”

“I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you about this sooner,” Yuuri bursts out, and Viktor catches his mother’s gaze and shakes his head with a small, indulgent smile.  Oh, Yuuri.  It’s as if he thinks she’s going to bite his head off or something!  Truly, he’s adorable.  “I just—I was going to tell Vitya, but before I got the chance, well, um, you know—”

“It’s quite alright, Prince Katsuki,” she interrupts, amused, as she quirks one eyebrow back at Viktor.  He’s not entirely able to help himself from tugging Yuuri over and pressing a quick kiss to his temple.

“You worry too much, my dear silly heart,” he teases gently.  “Nobody here is angry at you.”

“I have an _anxiety disorder_ , Vitya,” Yuuri huffs, but his little smile takes any bite away from the words.  “But… my worrying aside, what do we do?  About all of this?”

Viktor looks to his mother, and Yuuri follows his gaze.

“We wait,” she says simply.  “And we remain vigilant.  It is unfortunate that this did not come to our attention before the hearing was publicly scheduled—I think it may prove to be more difficult in the days ahead, now that Lady Golovkina has been disgraced.”

“Well,” Viktor points out, “I’m not sure that we could’ve used this during the hearing anyway.  In the interests of Mila’s safety, we can’t reveal that she was the one who overheard them, but we can’t throw out seemingly baseless accusation, either.”

It’s simple.  One conversation that could easily be denied as a fabrication is just not solid enough grounds for an investigation.  If they tried to use this evidence as a warrant to probe Ivanovich and Petrov’s loyalties, it could easily be turned around on them as opposition members in the court cry out about the insecurity and paranoia of the Nikiforovs, and about how they don’t deserve to remain in power if they’re trying so desperately to cling to it.  It wouldn’t be the first time showing cracks in the façade of power has led to a coup or revolution.

“True,” his mother acknowledges.  She sighs wearily and rubs her temples, something she would never allow herself to do in the other study, or in other company.  Viktor wonders if Yuuri understands what it means, that she shows such a vulnerability in front of him—the Queen _likes_ Yuuri.  Both for himself and because he makes Viktor happy.  “…Between the three of us, I must admit… sometimes, I wonder if the monarchy in Ruthenia has much time left at all.”

Yuuri stiffens, but Viktor just lets out a slow breath.  It’s not a thought they like to acknowledge, but he’s had it before, himself.

“I know,” he says quietly.  “Sometimes I wonder, too.”

Their court is top-heavy, full of those who hunger for power and an ever-polarizing gap in the camps of how to achieve the country’s goals.  Some don’t even care for the country and only seek to serve themselves.  Simply put, it’s full of corruption.  Some days, it looks less like a court and more like a rubber band, slowly but surely stretching further and further.  One of these days, Viktor is sure it’s going to snap.

His job is to try and make sure it doesn’t, or barring that, that he can protect as many people as he can from the backlash.  It’s a daunting task.  He can do it, he’s sure he can, but sometimes, in the dead of night when there’s nothing but his own thoughts to occupy him, he doubts.

Silence falls as all three of them mull over their thoughts, all pondering this latest information and the potential futures Ruthenia might face, until it’s broken by the soft peals of the clock on the wall, denoting the hour—twenty-one chimes.

 “Well,” the Queen says, back to briskness and business as usual.  “Be that as it may, we aren’t here for what-ifs and maybes.  We have jobs to do, and I will thank both of you to continue doing your best at those jobs for as long as we have.  Prince Katsuki, I’d like you to try and narrow down your empathic perceptions and compose a list of people for me, if you can.  Vitya, I expect you to be careful and remain on your guard.  Understood?”

What she says: _be careful and remain on your guard_.  What she means: _don’t be a reckless fool, stupid child of mine, and stay safe_. 

“Understood,” Yuuri says quickly, nodding several times.

“Yes, understood,” Viktor agrees.  “Should we get out of your hair, Mother?  It’s getting late.”  Not that it’s _that_ late yet, but he’s hoping to have the time to watch a movie with Yuuri before reviewing the docket for tomorrow’s court session and going to sleep.

The look on her face is slightly exasperated, a little bit fond, quite amused, and overall too knowing for his comfort.  “Of course,” she says drily.  “Good night, you two.”

“Good night, Your Majesty,” Yuuri says, inclining his head and standing.  Viktor follows suit languidly, offering Yuuri his arm, and after wishing his mother good night as well, he pushes open the door and steps out into the hallway.

Bita and Alina are standing on either side of the doors.  They appear to have been talking quietly to each other, but they snap to attention as soon as Viktor and Yuuri appear, and they easily fall into step behind them as they walk.

Halfway back to Viktor’s rooms, Yuuri squeezes his arm slightly.  “How are you?” he asks softly.

Viktor glances at him, surprised.  Hasn’t Yuuri had the more stressful day, out of the two of them?  He shouldn’t feel like he has to take care of Viktor…

“I’m alright,” he answers.  “How are you?”

“Tired,” Yuuri says with a wan smile.  “Relieved all the stressful stuff is out of the way, I guess.  But I’m okay, too.”

“Glad to hear it,” Viktor says. 

A little burst of warmth and affection blooms in his chest, like a sunflower made of gold and sunlight, complete with petals that feel distinctly like Yuuri.  It’s that thing Yuuri likes to do, the one where he touches Viktor’s mind with an empathic kiss instead of touching his lips with a physical one, and it’s so incredibly _sweet_.

He looks over at Yuuri and smiles, and despite his obvious exhaustion, Yuuri smiles back.

They made it through today.  Despite all the new worries, for tonight, he’ll let himself pretend that the worst is behind them.

* * *

 

— Group Message [Leki, Amir, Rani] —

[10:36] Phichit:  
ughghhghhh guys is breakfast still happening  
i just woke up  
im so tired i was up til 5 lol

[10:37] Amir:  
eeeyyyyyyy bro same lol

[10:37] Rani:  
:/

[10:37] Leki:  
:-/

[10:38] Phichit:  
leki what have i told you about texting with noses  
do i look awake enough to deal with this

[10:38] Leki:  
I think they look better!  
Besides, if you didn’t stay up so late, I wouldn’t have to make the :-/ face at you.

[10:38] Amir:  
instead he’d be like “oh i’m so glad you slept well! :-)”  
that pained me to type

[10:39] Rani:  
breakfast is still a thing!!! it’s still morning, you should get food phichit!!  
also amir if you are still in bed when i get home i will be so sad you have to help me with these groceries

[10:39] Amir:  
IM UP IM UP DON’T BE SAD

[10:40] Phichit:  
cuuuute <3

[10:40] Leki:  
Super cute!!!

[10:40] Amir:  
DONT DO IT BRO

[10:40] Leki:  
:-)

[10:40] Amir:  
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

[10:41] Rani:  
i almost don’t want to give birth, our poor daughter is going to have to put up with her dad and uncle having nose discourse all the time

[10:41] Phichit:  
her other uncle will join her dad in beating up the first uncle so it won’t last don’t worry  
we will not let this travesty continue

[10:41] Amir:  
guys guess what tho

[10:41] Phichit:  
what??

[10:42] Amir:  
IM GONNA BE A DAD REALLY SOON HOLY SHIT IM SO EXCITED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[10:42] Rani:  
hahahahahahahahahahahaha  
trust me…………………… i am well aware………………  
<3

[10:42] Leki:  
You guys are so cute :-)

[10:42] Phichit:  
blocked.  
anyway im gonna go grab brunch at the café on the corner if anyone wants to join?

[10:42] Leki:  
I already ate and I’m about to head out for a while, thanks for the invite though!

[10:43] Rani:  
give us twenty minutes—im just getting home and we have to put away the groceries  
but we’ll both come!!

[10:43] Phichit:  
kk! see u in a few!

 

* * *

 It’s funny how Viktor acts simultaneously so differently and yet the same, now, a few weeks after the establishment of their relationship.  In public, nothing changes, except perhaps here and there when nobody looks he glances at Yuuri with a softer smile than usual, but in private, that softness transforms into so much warmth that Yuuri thinks he might just melt on the spot.

They don’t always have afternoons to themselves, but this is one day when they do, and they spend it in Viktor’s sitting room.  Yuuri has a book borrowed from the east library, a fascinating collection of old Ruthenian folklore and poetry, and Viktor is scrolling through something-or-other on his laptop.  Makkachin is curled up, snoozing away, on the rug in front of the couch.

Time passes, lazy and indolent and slow.  Yuuri relishes it—quiet, casually intimate moments like this are less common than he’d like, with all the hustle and bustle that court life and drama brings, let alone the tension of worrying about treason and the aftermath of assassination, as much as that might seem like old news now that everyone is talking about the historic Vespuccian trade accords.  If the Queen signs them, it’ll be groundbreaking—trade agreements with Vespuccia haven’t properly gone through in many years.

But Yuuri isn’t going to worry about any of that right now.  He’s not wearing a crown or a circlet or anything—he’s just Yuuri, enjoying the company of a book, his fiancé, and his dog.

“You’re so cute,” Viktor sighs dreamily.  Yuuri smiles to himself and keeps reading, listening absently.  Makkachin is asleep—it’s really sweet that Viktor coos over him like this even when there’s no response.  “My adorable little darling.”

A pause.

“You make me so happy, did I ever tell you?  Just the little things you do.  Even just like this, sitting here with you, even if we aren’t doing anything, I’m just happier.”

Another pause.

“Why are you ignoring me, sweetheart?” Viktor asks mournfully, and Yuuri has to laugh.

“Vitya, he’s _asleep_ ,” he says, finally putting the book down. 

Viktor stares at him, nonplussed.  A full heartbeat of silence passes, and Yuuri begins to get the distinct feeling that he really missed something here.

“You… thought I was talking to Makkachin,” Viktor says, a flat note of incredulity in his voice. 

 “Um… you… oh, _no_ , you were talking to me, weren’t you,” he mumbles, realization dawning painfully late.  He buries his face in his hands, cheeks burning, as Viktor starts to laugh.

“Truly,” he says, “you are something else.  Come here,” and he grabs Yuuri’s wrist, gently tugging him over.  Yuuri lets him, settling into his lap and crossing his arms, still embarrassed, but Viktor just kisses his cheeks.  “Do I really talk to Makkachin like that?”

“ _Yes,”_ Yuuri pouts.  “All the time!  I heard you telling him that he’s the light of your life this morning!”

Viktor laughs again.  Yuuri attempts to ignore the way the sound fills him with little butterflies of giddiness, but it’s a lost cause—he really should know that by now—and he can’t help but give in to the smile tugging at his lips as he finds himself snuggling close against Viktor’s chest.  It’s not _fair_ that the _Ice Prince_ of all people can make him melt like this, but… then again, that’s quite the misnomer, isn’t it?  Icy he might be from afar, but up close, Viktor Nikiforov’s heart is full of nothing but warmth, and Yuuri is cozy and safe in it.

“Well, _darling,”_ Viktor croons, “you can rest assured that right now, my attention is solely yours.”

“You don’t need to reassure me about that,” Yuuri says.  “Besides, Makkachin deserves every word of love you give him and then some.  I would die for Makkachin.”

Viktor sighs, though he can’t quite mask his smile.  “You’re only marrying me for my dog, aren’t you?”

Yuuri loops his arms around his neck, leaning in until their noses brush.  “Well, the dog might be the biggest reason, but he’s not the _only_ one…”

“Oh?” Viktor hums.  He tightens his arms, pulls Yuuri a little closer, and starts rubbing slow circles at the base of his spine with his thumb.  “Do tell.”

Yuuri pulls back and says conversationally, “Oh, and there’s also something about an alliance between Ruthenia and Hinomoto, so that has something to do with why I’m marrying you, too, because politically speaking, a match between the second prince—”

_“Yuuri,”_ Viktor complains dramatically.  “You _tease!_ Here I was, a poor, innocent man looking forward to a kiss, and you start explaining politics that I already know to me?  Terrible!  How could you do this to me?”

Yuuri laughs—he can’t help it; the scandalized look on Viktor’s face is just too much!  _Priceless._ That combined with the warm, bubbly happiness he can feel emanating from Viktor makes him feel positively giddy.  “You make it too easy!”

“Terrible,” Viktor says again, shaking his head.  “You should make it up to me somehow.”

“Somehow,” Yuuri repeats sardonically.  “I don’t suppose you have any ideas as to how, exactly?”

At this point, Viktor gives up and just leans in to kiss Yuuri himself, and all banter and pretenses fall away as Yuuri once again melts against him, eyes fluttering closed as Viktor’s lips brush against his.  Viktor presses him closer again, like he doesn’t want there to be any gap between their bodies at all, and Yuuri’s hand finds its way into that pale, silky hair, cradling the back of Viktor’s head.

They pull apart for just a moment before Yuuri pulls Viktor into another kiss, and Viktor hums appreciatively into his mouth.  The warm, bubbly, giddy feelings only grow as Viktor’s hand slides up to Yuuri’s neck, his thumb caressing his jaw, and then Viktor breaks the kiss to press his lips to the corner of Yuuri’s mouth.

“You’re so lovely,” he murmurs, and the raw adoration in his voice sends a shiver down Yuuri’s spine.  Viktor continues trailing soft little kisses along his jaw, pausing to plant a longer one just below his ear, and Yuuri can’t help but let out a little gasp, tilting his head to the side to allow him more room.  Viktor squeezes him closer again and chuckles fondly, nuzzling Yuuri’s neck.  “So wonderful, my darling, my sunshine.”

“Flatterer,” Yuuri breathes, scrunching his fingers through Viktor’s hair.  “You’re the lovely one.”

Viktor’s reply is a breathy chuckle and a kiss pressed to the pulse in Yuuri’s neck that makes the breath catch in his throat.  “And who’s the flatterer now?”

“Still you.”  The words come out as a breathless laugh as he presses his cheek to Viktor’s hair, holding him close.  He never wants to let go.  Tangled up with Viktor is where he wants to be for the next several hours, at the very least; he feels so happy and content right now that his heart is swelling, fit to burst.  And the best part is that he _knows_ Viktor feels the same way.  “Always you, Vitya.”

“Somehow, I get the feeling we aren’t talking about flattery anymore,” Viktor murmurs into his shoulder.  He trails those feather-light kisses up Yuuri’s neck and all the way back to his lips, while Yuuri lets out a shaky sigh that leaves him breathless when Viktor kisses him again, soft and sweet and slow.

“Not quite,” Yuuri agrees.  He scrunches his fingers through Viktor’s hair again, fingertips brushing his scalp, and Viktor’s eyes flutter closed in bliss.

“Do that some more,” he sighs, and Yuuri does, his other hand sliding up to join the first.  Viktor bonelessly slumps forward to rest his chin on Yuuri’s shoulder, humming in contentment.  “Never stop.”

“I’ll have to stop eventually,” Yuuri says, smiling fondly.  “But not for a while.”

“Never,” Viktor repeats emphatically, turning his head to burrow into the crook of Yuuri’s neck and sending another shiver down his spine as he does.  “I’m never letting go of you, so you can’t.”

“But Vitya,” Yuuri points out, “I need at least one of my hands to pet Makkachin.”

“…Ah.”  Viktor sighs.  “I suppose that’s true.  Makkachin needs all the love we can give him.”

Something about the mental image of the two of them, united in a quest to shower their lovely dog in love and attention, as if that’s the most important thing in the world, fills Yuuri with affection for the man in his arms—open and vulnerable and loving, so distant from the cold persona he displays for the world to see.  It’s even there in his body language—he lets Yuuri hold him like this, hands skimming over his unprotected neck and back, lets himself be defenseless and completely at his mercy, and whispers words of nothing but love.

“I love you,” Yuuri tells him, twisting his head to press a kiss into Viktor’s hair.

“I love you, too,” Viktor murmurs.  Yuuri can feel him smile against his neck. 

They sit together like that for a while, long enough that Yuuri’s pretty sure Viktor’s legs must be numb by now, but he shows no sign of complaint as Yuuri keeps stroking his hair.  Eventually, he sighs softly, content, and Yuuri feels affection squeeze at his heart.

“I’m glad Alina stays outside when I’m with you,” Yuuri says wryly.  “I feel like this would be a lot more awkward with a spectator.”

Viktor chuckles.  “Yes, well, I suppose I’m trusted to keep you safe,” he answers, then turns his head to press a tiny kiss to Yuuri’s shoulder.  “It’s been a month, speaking of Alina.  How are you two getting along?”

Yuuri hums.  “Pretty well, I think.  She gets that I like space and tries to give it to me when she can, which I appreciate, but she also tells me when I’m being an idiot—my words, not hers—like when I wanted to go take a walk alone…”  He laughs softly, then shakes his head.  “But I like her.  She told me that she and Bita are thinking of retiring from active service soon to adopt some children—they’ve always wanted kids and they just can’t decide what color scheme to put in the nursery, she said.  It was a charmingly domestic conversation.”

Viktor nods.  “I’m glad,” he says.  “I would have hated to force you to be with someone you couldn’t get along with, or to put you in a situation with no good resolution.”

Yuuri pats his head, hearing the unspoken sentiments under his words.  “Don’t worry,” he promises.  “I’m happy.”  _With you._

“Good,” Viktor says, a smile in his voice.  “So am I.”

* * *

[22:39] Christophe Giacometti:  
Viktor!  Hello, hello.  How was your day?

[22:40] Viktor:  
Fantastic.  I spent at least a solid five minutes waxing poetic about my love for Yuuri and the entire time he thought I was talking to my dog.

[22:43] Viktor:  
…Come on, you HAVE to be done laughing by now.

[22:43] Christophe Giacometti:  
Not even CLOSE!

[22:44] Viktor:  
(*ಠ╭╮ಠ*)

* * *

Rain plays a soft melody against the windowpane, _pitter-pit-patter_ as the wind rises and swells and falls.  It’s a perfect evening to stay in and enjoy some almond oolong tea while cozy under a blanket in Yuri’s sitting room.  The only thing missing is Viktor, but he’s going over a bill to be introduced in court in a few days, and Yuri demanded Yuuri’s attention for now.  At least Viktor is only a few rooms away—Yuuri can faintly sense his presence, flickering like a distant but constant light.

“You and your leaf water,” Yuri mutters, casting a look over at him.  “That’s like your second cup so far.”

It’s actually his fifth cup today, (the first was with breakfast and the second was after lunch and the third was just an hour ago, with the Queen, who apparently likes having tea with him) but Yuri doesn’t need to know that.  “Second cup” indeed.

“Yes, and?” Yuuri asks calmly, sipping his “leaf water” again.  It’s _good_.

Yuri rolls his eyes.  “Nothing, Katsudon, you’re just weird.”

“That sounds like your catchphrase these days,” Yuuri notes wryly.  “Anyway, should we get back on topic?”

“Yeah,” Yuri says quickly.  He scowls at the blanket for a second, concentrating so hard that Yuuri half wonders if he’s going to burn a hole through it with the intensity of his glare, and then lifts his head.  “Am I doing it right this time?”

They’ve been practicing the empathic shield technique for a while now, and Yuuri has to say, he’s more than a little impressed by Yuri’s tenacity and stubbornness.  Most people don’t keep trying so doggedly in one sitting—they sit back and stew and come back to try again.  But, he supposes, Yuri isn’t “most people”.

Reaching out empathically, he brushes against the wall around Yuri’s mind, probes it gently for cracks and holes, and finds to his satisfaction that they are much reduced from when they started.

“Much better than before,” he compliments, but as soon as the words leave his mouth and register in Yuri’s mind, the wall shudders and weakens dramatically as Yuri grins.

“Really?” he asks.  “Hah!  I told you!  I _knew_ I could do it, Katsudon!”

Yuuri laughs.  “Yes, yes, but you have to practice at it,” he says.  “You just lost it again!”

Yuri blinks, frowns, and tosses his head to get the hair out of his eyes.  “Damn.”

“You’ll get there,” Yuuri reassures.  “It takes practice.  Sooner or later it’ll become like second nature to you!”  He pauses.  “Though, you’ll want to be careful with that, too, I guess—general empathic blocks get in the way of philology, too, so if you’re trying to get a translator spell to work for you, you would need to drop the block…”

Yuri frowns some more.  “Why’s that?”

“Well, that’s… how it works?” Yuuri says doubtfully.  “I mean—I’ll be honest with you, intermagical connections were never my strong suit—but empathy and philology are sort of… twin schools, I think is the best way to put it?  Kind of how there’s the different but related kinds of elementals, or shadow versus light?  Empathy is like, um, the inner part of the mind, and philology is the outer one. 

“So you know how those illegal drugs that inhibit, say, elemental magic, they aren’t specific to any _kind_ of elemental magic because all elemental magic shares a base?  It’s like that.  A mental block is a mental block, whether it’s used philologically or empathically.”  He shrugs.  “Does that make sense?”

It’s kind of a shame.  Philology is empathy’s sister school—where empathy is all inward and channeled through the practitioner’s own emotions, philology is much more outward-focused, working via the connection between the mind and the outside world (one of its major applications is the universal translator spell, which converts sounds the spell’s target hears into a language they recognize in their mind)—but he doesn’t know more than the most rudimentary of philological spells.  He spent his time almost exclusively studying empathy.

“Yeah,” Yuri says.  He shifts, tugs the blanket Yuuri’s under and spreads it over his own lap too, stretching out until his feet nudge Yuuri’s legs.  “Inconvenient, though.  Is there a way to do it that’s like, not in the way for the translator spell?”

“There _is,”_ Yuuri says, “but it’s an empathic spell and it’s a little more complicated and involved.  I _could_ teach it to you, don’t get me wrong, but we’d have to go through a lot of empathy to get there, so the basic block is your best bet for now.”

“Hm,” Yuri grunts.

They sit in a companionable silence for a few minutes.  Yuuri finishes his tea and sets the empty cup aside, checking his phone to make sure he hasn’t missed a new message from Phichit or anyone, but it appears that for once, Phichit is asleep at a reasonable hour.  Either that, or he’s busy and can’t get to his phone.  Whatever the case, he hasn’t seen Yuuri’s latest pictures of Makkachin.  (His loss.)

“Hey, Katsudon?” Yuri speaks up after a moment.

Yuuri is about to say _yes?_ when something goes wrong.

Viktor’s steadfast, calm (a little bored, really) presence at the edge of Yuuri’s senses suddenly darkens with shock and grief like a candle plunged into cold water.  It’s such a sharp, poignant yank of plaintive horror and denial and _pain_ that Yuuri gasps aloud, sitting bolt upright.

“Katsudon?” Yuri asks sharply, startled.  “What—”

“ _Vitya,”_ Yuuri gasps, scrambling to free himself from the blanket.  Viktor radiates hurt and grief and pain like a beacon, waves of emotion pulsing out to reach Yuuri like an unspoken plea for help. 

His heart leaps to his throat, pounding out a rhythm of _what’s wrong what’s wrong what’s wrong_ , as he flees Yuri’s room and tears down the hall past a startled Alina, his world narrowed to nothing but Viktor.  He doesn’t even stop to knock before barreling into the room frantically, nearly trampling Doctor Zhanna as she leaves.  He apologizes absentmindedly and brushes past her into the bedroom, looking for—there.

Viktor is standing by the window, staring out into the darkness.  He looks pristine and perfect and normal, unharmed, but the grief and the pain are stronger now, so that must be nothing more than illusion.  Of _course_ it is, if he doesn’t even turn when Yuuri bursts into the room.

Alina closes the door behind him to provide them privacy, and Yuuri tells himself he has to remember to thank her for being thoughtful despite having no idea what’s going on.  But right now, he has to go to Viktor—

Oh, he realizes.  Viktor’s shoulders are shaking.

“Vitya,” he breathes, breaking out of his trance and stumbling forward.

Viktor turns, his eyes reddened and his cheeks streaked with silent tears.

“Yuuri,” he greets.  His voice doesn’t manage to keep the smooth lilt he’s obviously trying so hard to force into it, and Yuuri’s heart _shatters_.  He doesn’t think he’s ever see Viktor cry, not like this.  “…Yuuri.”

“You don’t have to hide,” Yuuri whispers, reaching for him.  “Not from me.  Never from me.”

At the slightest touch of Yuuri’s fingers against his arm, Viktor crumples into Yuuri’s waiting embrace, and Yuuri barely manages to catch him.  They sink to the floor, and Yuuri holds Viktor as tightly as he can, rubbing his back. 

A chill runs down his spine.  The despair has not lessened at all; the grief is just as strong.  Whatever happened, it isn’t letting Viktor go so easily.

“What’s wrong?” he asks softly, stroking gentle circles between Viktor’s shoulderblades.  “Please tell me, Vitya?”

Viktor lets out a hollow laugh.  He lifts his head, looks Yuuri in the eyes, and shakes his head helplessly.  Dread creeps up Yuuri’s chest, an icy hand closing its fingers around his heart, before Viktor even opens his mouth to speak—

“Yuuri,” he says brokenly.  “Yuuri, my mother—my mother had a heart attack.  Yuuri, god, help me.  The Queen is dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN DUN DUNNNNN.........
> 
> 1\. OH MAN SO SORRY I TOOK SO LONG!!! i had a lot of trouble with this chapter blegh, and school kicking my ass did NOT help. that being said, i already have a feeling 11 will be a bit late anyway, because next week is exam week and right after exams finish, i have to move out, so i won't have any real free time to write until at _least_ the sunday after next... mmmmmmmmh. sorry! :(
> 
> 2\. goodies!!!!! look at [this cute katsuki sibling hug](http://adreamingsongbird.tumblr.com/post/159819020190/evanise-lynn-adreamingsongbird-i-know-i-said-i) and [this sweet lil smooch](http://adreamingsongbird.tumblr.com/post/159828986675/evanise-lynn-i-was-thinking-something-more-along) by evanise! and also [this ADORABLE snoot smooch](http://adreamingsongbird.tumblr.com/post/159909710010/rossomimi-smooch-the-snoot-%D0%B7-based-on) by rossomimi!!! then check out [these super cute yuuris and viktors](http://adreamingsongbird.tumblr.com/post/159966249420/lumerelux-the-outfits-beanpots-drew-for-the) by lumerelux, i love them?? and finally please feast your eyes upon [this absolutely gorgeous rendition of the kiss](http://adreamingsongbird.tumblr.com/post/159781222780/tanaw-and-if-i-told-you-he-says-slowly) by the incredible tanaw!!!! i love all of these so much you guys, thank you!!!!!!!!!! <3 <3 <3
> 
> 3\. i don't think i have a ton to say this chapter either, haha. there's a lot of stuff going on, which is why it seems maybe a touch slow? sorry again about it being late, i really do feel bad about that :P anyway, see you in another two-ish weeks and if you wanna reach me, you can always find me on tumblr! :D
> 
> next time: those three little words... _"let's end this."_


	11. stay close to me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor realizes that paradoxically, to save his heart, he has to break it. Yuuri doesn't understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor character death warning (really minor this time I swear)

It ought to be [raining](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEiucbbXBUA) today.  That’s how it always is, right?  In every book, movie, and television show, it always rains at funerals.  The sky opens up and cries for the world’s loss, and the tears on everyone’s cheeks get washed away.  It’s all grey, grey, grey.

Or, barring that, today ought to be sunny, painfully bright like Vasilisa Nikiforova’s eyes, piercing and blazing and bold.  She enjoyed the rain, but she was always more like the sun.  It would be fitting for her funeral to be marked by the sunniest day in Ruthenian history.

Instead, it’s just overcast and damp, brushed here and there by the occasional drizzle that never gets heavy enough to warrant an umbrella.  All it really does is force Yuuri to keep taking his glasses off to wipe away the water droplets.  It’s not what the weather should be, not today, and somehow the way it’s all so ill-fitting makes everything even sadder.

Yuuri swallows past the ever-present lump in his throat and gently squeezes Viktor’s hand.  Viktor squeezes back with a flash of gratefulness, and oh, how Yuuri wishes they were in private so that he could sweep him into his arms and hold on tight.  

But no; here, decorum must be maintained.  Of course the Queen deserves a state funeral with all the highest honors, but how he wishes it could be a private service, that Viktor could grieve openly instead of hiding his sorrow behind a dull, emotionless mask.  Out here, out in public, he has to maintain so much poise it’s _stifling_.

God, he just wants to _scream_.

The speeches go by in a blur.  Yuuri does his best to pay attention, out of respect if nothing else, but he’s too deep in a mixture of equal parts grief and worry, and the words go in one ear and out the other.   _A strong leader,_ Duke Feltsman is saying gruffly.   _A fearless queen, and a good friend._

_She will be sorely missed,_ Duchess Baranovskaya adds, her voice piercing like a bell ringing out into the still air.  Yuuri stares at the coffin, grand and golden and covered in a Ruthenian flag, and tries to reconcile its image with that of the living, breathing woman with whom he had tea less than a week ago.

Bizarrely, he finds himself thinking of Vicchan.  It had been hard, saying goodbye to his beloved pup, and maybe it’s wrong of him to be comparing Vasilisa Nikiforova to a dog, but the process of saying goodbye is a little more familiar if he imagines a fluffy poodle puppy leading him down the path.

After all, Vicchan’s death was sudden, too.  Unexpected.  Horrifying.  Yuuri’s fault, really—he was negligent and he didn’t realize the leash was so frayed, and when Vicchan tugged at it, it snapped, and the street was too close and the car couldn’t stop in time—

He’d like to say he never blamed the driver, but that isn’t true.  He was so angry, at first, because it was easier to be angry than it was to deal with the blood and the sudden stillness, but that could only last for so long, and…

_Funny_ , he can’t help but think as his vision blurs and hot tears threaten to slide down his cheeks.   _I’m at my future mother-in-law’s funeral and I’m crying for my dead dog._

That’s the thing, though.  It was a lot easier to accept Vicchan being dead because he was right there when it _happened_.  With Queen Nikiforova, it’s… different.  One day, she was fine.  The next, she was dead.

Which, he supposes, is how death works, but it’s very jarring, nonetheless.

“Please don’t cry,” Viktor whispers, barely audible.  His grip on Yuuri’s hand could be a crucible.  “I know it’s selfish of me to ask, but please.  Or else I will, too, and…”

Duke Vinogradov the elder is currently talking.  Viktor himself has the last speech on the schedule; Yuuri has a sinking feeling that as soon as he goes up and opens his mouth to speak, Yuuri himself will just start bawling.  He’s always cried pretty easily, after all.

But no.  He can’t.  He has to be strong for Viktor today.  Just until they get out of public.  Then he can cry, too, but for now, he needs to be a pillar of support.  A life vest, his goal to surround and save a drowning man.

“It’s okay,” he whispers back, shuffling just a touch closer, so that their shoulders brush.  “It’s alright.  I won’t cry.”

He wants to hold Viktor, wants to kiss him and wrap him up in warmth and comfort, wants to console him so badly it’s like a physical ache in his chest.  But he can’t do that, not while they’re out here in all their ceremonial black robes, so he has to settle for this—whispers and joined hands.  It’s not ideal.

Brushing his mind against his fiancé’s, he casts a slight, questioning glance up at him, offering but not pushing an empathic kiss to him.  “May I…?”

It would be insensitive to give him that burst of warmth without a warning, right here and right now.  He seems relatively stoic and invulnerable to everyone watching them, but Yuuri can see clear as day that it’s just a shell surrounding a broken and hurting core.  Like chocolate frozen on ice cream, if the ice cream under it was made of suffering and grief.

“Please,” Viktor says softly, closing his eyes.  Yuuri presses the emotions toward him slowly and gently, focusing on plucking those deep chords of _you’re safe_ and _I’m here,_ with a light dusting of _love love love_ sprinkled on top.  Viktor lets out a quiet breath, and Yuuri can tell he’s letting himself float on the feeling of security like a cloud, or maybe wrapping himself in it like a blanket.  Whichever metaphor is more apt, he’ll make sure to keep providing that feeling as Viktor talks.

Silence falls between them again as Vinogradov talks some more, extolling the virtues of the Queen.  It’s all true—she was strong and stunning and brilliant, and she made great strides to hold Ruthenia together—and Yuuri could not agree more, and yet he finds himself wishing the man would stop being so long-winded and just get on with it.  Can’t they all see that the Crown Prince is grieving and needs to be out of the public eye for a while?

…The Crown Prince’s fiancé is also grieving.  He too would like some time to himself, actually.  He wants to take care of Viktor, which means he has to keep himself together and stay strong, but he also really, _really_ just wants to call his best friend and cry for an hour.

Immediately, a pang of guilt sours his insides like curdled milk.  This is a _funeral_.  He shouldn’t be thinking about himself and his own desires, he should be thinking about Queen Vasilisa and how she is _dead_ and how much that impacts him.  This is… this is the end of her story.  Shouldn’t he be honoring that?

Grief is confusing and difficult.  Yuuri is not a fan.

Vinogradov’s speech is drawing to a close.  Viktor inhales, trying to subtly steady himself, and begins the painful process of releasing his vicelike grip on Yuuri’s hand.  The pain Yuuri can feel radiating from him hurts to witness—oh, how he longs to just take it away, to make everything better, but he _can’t_.

The wind picks up, rustling through the trees and the grass and making Viktor’s black cape billow out around his shoulders.  Yuuri bites his lip and gently lets go of his hand, but doesn’t fully pull away.

“I don’t want this,” Viktor breathes, barely audible over the breeze.

Yuuri hesitates.  He glances from Viktor up to the podium—the nice thing is that it’s directly opposite where they stand, across the ceremonial, decorated coffin—and then back, and tries to sound reassuring.

“Don’t look at everyone else,” he replies.  “Just look at me, just talk to me.  Like when you practiced.  It’ll be the same as then.”

“No,” Viktor shakes his head.  “Not the same.  This is the last time I’ll—”

He cuts himself off so abruptly it hurts.  Yuuri aches to see him pull away with a small, sad smile, passing Duke Vinogradov as he goes to take the podium.

_This is the last time I’ll say these words._  How haunted he sounded.  Yuuri sends him a small nudge of _security love I’m here support_ again, and for Viktor’s sake, makes sure he doesn’t look away, not even once.

If only the sky could just open up and cry already.

* * *

Eventually they make it back to the [palace](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c8xtGXsueXA) and Yuuri’s suite of rooms, discarding ceremonial formal clothes for comfortable pajamas and robes and a _do not disturb_ order that Alina assures she will see carried out, should anyone come by.  

Several hours and a few shots of vodka later, Viktor lies slumped limply against Yuuri’s chest, his eyes reddened and his face downcast.  Yuuri holds him tight, as tight as he can, but he knows his embrace isn’t the one Viktor craves right now.

“I want to get drunk,” Viktor mumbles.  “I’m just barely past tipsy now.  I just want to get drunk and forget today _happened._ ”

“Vitya,” Yuuri says softly.  That’s, frankly, a terrible idea, and they both know it, tipsy or not.  “Vitya, darling…”

“I won’t,” Viktor sighs.  “But I want to.”  He pauses, shifts in Yuuri’s arms, and shakes his head, burrowing into Yuuri’s shoulder.  “I hate this,” he says.  “I _hate_ this, you know?  If we were just a damn _normal_ family, I would’ve been allowed to _cry_ at her fucking funeral, Yuuri, _Yuuri_ , how fucked up is it that I have to be so distant all the time that I can’t cry when I throw dirt into my own mother’s grave—hell, if we were normal, maybe she wouldn’t be dead, there’s—fuck, _fuck_ ,” and he just bursts into tears with a horrible choked gasp.

“Oh, Vitya,” Yuuri murmurs, rubbing his back.  What can he say?  What can he do?  He can’t—he can’t _fix_ this, and it’s killing him just a little bit to know that he can’t, but—all he can do is be a shoulder to cry on, and it sucks.  It sucks and he just—he wants—

Shit, if he starts crying, too, Viktor will feel like he has to comfort _him_ , and Yuuri doesn’t want that!

“I’m sorry, I love you, I know,” he manages, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing his face into Viktor’s hair.  “Vitya…”

In Ruthenian custom, talk about circumstances around someone’s death are strictly forbidden from discussion until after burial traditions have been taken care of.  It stems from an old legend that admonished people for obsessing over a death before celebrating a life, and over time has just become a social taboo.  But now that Queen Vasilisa has been interred in the Royal Tombs, Viktor is going to have to deal with the official repercussions of her passing.

No wonder he feels overwhelmed.  He has to be _king._

And not only that, but his first order of business will have to be an investigation into the death of his own mother.  It is… very suspicious, to put it mildly, that a blood mage with no known health complications could suddenly succumb to a fatal heart attack.  It’s not impossible, of course, but the odds are longer than a shadow cast at sunrise.

And that’s what Viktor means—if they weren’t royal, maybe his mother would still be alive.  Wouldn’t have been targeted.  It’s chilling to think about.  There were other attempts on her life in years past that never made it, but this one did, so subtly and so quietly that none of them saw it coming.  The amount of planning that would go into something like that…

“Yuuri,” Viktor whimpers.  “I want her _back_ , I can’t—I can’t do this alone…”

“You’re not alone,” Yuuri tries.  He knows he’s a poor substitute for Vasilisa Nikiforova, but dammit, he’s here, and he’s going to love Viktor with every ounce of fierceness in his body.  “You don’t have to do it alone.”

Viktor’s breath hitches.  He buries himself further in the crook of Yuuri’s neck, shoulders hunched and shaking, and Yuuri rubs circles between his shoulderblades, ignoring the lump in his own throat and the hot tears slipping down his cheeks.  “I… she’s gone,” Viktor whispers.  “I can’t… there’s… there’s nobody here to love me like she did anymore.”

This hurts.

Yuuri can feel Viktor’s grief on top of his own, all the pain flowing with the tears like a vast, rushing river, and it _hurts._  What can he do in the face of this flood?  He’s a single sandbag trying to lessen the effect of a deluge.

“I know, sweetheart,” he says softly.  He will not cry, he will not cry, he will not cry… “I know, I know.  I’m sorry.  I love you, Vitya, I love you so much…”

“Yuuri,” Viktor rasps.  “Stay with me.  Please.  Don’t leave me.”

“I won’t,” Yuuri promises immediately, squeezing him tighter.  “I won’t, I won’t, I won’t.  I’m here, I swear.”

“Thank you,” Viktor whispers into Yuuri’s collarbone.  He takes a shaky breath that chokes halfway and turns into a sob, and Yuuri fretfully rubs his back some more.

“Just let yourself cry, sweetheart,” he suggests, voice a low, concerned murmur.  “Don’t worry about holding it in.  It’s just me.  It’s just us.”

A little bit of the tension in Viktor’s shoulders deflates, and he melts a little further into Yuuri’s embrace.  Yuuri kisses his hair again and holds him close as the minutes tick by, painfully slow and punctuated only by Viktor’s muffled sniffles and gasps.

Eventually, he cries himself to sleep in Yuuri’s arms, lying in bed all tangled up together.  Yuuri considers him for a few long moments, a few tears of his own rolling silently down his cheeks.

How dear this man in his arms has become to him.  How painful it is to see him hurting.  How much he wants to protect him.

_Take care of him,_ Queen Vasilisa’s memory whispers.   _When I am gone, you will take care of him…_

_Yes,_ Yuuri promises her silently.   _I will._

* * *

 

“You need to rest.”

Viktor doesn’t even look up, acknowledging Yuuri’s words with only a disparaging snort.  Silence falls again for several moments, the only sound that of his fingers tap-tapping away at the keyboard.

“There’s too much to do.”

It’s Yuuri’s turn to snort, disbelief coloring his voice.  “Oh, please!  There’s not so much that you _have_ to keep doing this.  You’ve barely slept!  Concealer can only do so much, and the coronation is in two days—”

Viktor’s head whips around.  “You think I don’t know that?” he snaps, cold and imperious.  “Trust me, I am _quite_ aware of the coronation.”

He’s irritable because he’s under a lot of stress and still dealing with grief, and is exhausted on top of that.  Yuuri knows this, of course he does, but it still stings when he reaches out to try to offer help and gets his hand slapped for his efforts.

“Vitya,” he says, folding his arms across his chest, “be rational, please.  You have a lot of work to do, I’m not disputing that, but it doesn’t mean you should just stop taking care of yourself.”

Viktor’s gaze hardens into a glare.  Yuuri lifts his chin and stares back as calmly as he can.  If Viktor wants a standoff, _fine_.  He can have one.  Yuuri isn’t afraid to tell him off, and frankly, he’s pretty sure that he has a major advantage in the form of a solid seven hours of sleep last night.

“I’m not a _child_ , Yuuri,” Viktor huffs.  “You can stop patronizing me anytime you’d like.  I appreciate your concern, but I’m perfectly fine, and I’m _busy._ ”

Yuuri has to fight down the urge to roll his eyes.  “If you think I’m treating you like a child, maybe you should stop acting like one.”

Viktor gapes at him for a second before his brows draw together darkly, and he opens his mouth to retort when—

—he yawns.

For a moment, they’re both frozen in startled silence, staring at each other.  Then Yuuri can’t hold back a giggle, though he tries to smother it behind his hands, and the tension deflates faster than a popping balloon, and Viktor groans, rubbing his brow.

“My body betrays me with the worst timing,” he complains, slouching back in his chair.  “Fantastic.  Just what I need, on top of everything else.”

Yuuri laughs and approaches, relieved, and slides his hands around to start kneading Viktor’s stiff, tight shoulders.  “C’mon.  Just a little break, okay?  And then I won’t nag for a few hours.  But you _are_ going to bed at a decent hour tonight.  If anyone tries to say you haven’t approved or read their proposals fast enough, they can answer to me.”

Viktor hums lowly, his head rolling back in bliss as Yuuri’s fingers find a particularly tight knot of muscle and work away at it.  “Mmm.  Fine.  Yeah.  Okay.”

Yuuri looks down at him fondly, then leans in to press a kiss to the top of his head, nestling his face into that silken, silvery hair for a moment before he straightens again, fingers still kneading away.  “Good,” he says.  “Now come on, come to bed?  I can rub your back.”

It might be blatant bribery, but it does the trick.  Viktor groans, nods, and gets to his feet, sighing heavily.  “If I fall asleep, wake me up,” he requests.  “I want to get through most of this tonight.”

Yuuri purses his lips as he slides his arm around Viktor’s waist, leading him away from his private study and closing the door.  “I’ll let you sleep for a little while,” he says, “but I’ll wake you up by sunset if you sleep that long.”

Viktor sighs again.  “I guess that’s the best deal I’ll get out of you,” he muses.  He wraps his arm around Yuuri’s shoulders and leans over to press a tired kiss to his temple.  “Sorry.  I’m being awfully stubborn today, aren’t I?”

“Maybe a little,” Yuuri smiles.  “But it’s okay.  You’re dealing with a lot.  I don’t mind.”

“I shouldn’t take my stress out on you,” Viktor contradicts.  “Also, you are too kind to me and I don’t deserve you.  Thank you.”

Yuuri laughs softly.  “You’re welcome,” he says, giving him a gentle squeeze.  Viktor leans against him as they walk to his bedroom—still _his_ bedroom, not the royal monarch’s suite, which Yuuri still cannot think of as Viktor’s instead of his mother’s—and the canopied, soft, fluffy bed waiting there.  It’s tempting even to Yuuri, who _hasn’t_ been working himself to the bone to avoid grief, so it must look positively divine to Viktor.

Sure enough, Viktor walks forward and flops face-down onto the bed with a muffled groan.

“Yuuri,” he says, voice barely audible because of the comforter his face is buried in, “I’m dead.  Just leave me here.”

“Please don’t be dead,” Yuuri requests, clambering on next to him and running a hand through his hair affectionately.  “I like you better alive.”

Viktor rolls over with another groan.  “My head hurts.”

“It’s because you haven’t been sleeping,” Yuuri admonishes.  He feels like his mother, tutting and fretting and fussing.  “You should rest.  You’ll feel better.”

“You said you’d rub my back,” Viktor complains— _whines_ , really—and Yuuri can’t help but laugh at the plaintive, wheedling tone in his voice.

“Of course, of course,” he says.  “First of all, get rid of all those extra clothes.  It’s better if you’re not wearing so much, you know.  Especially this jacket, it’s so stiff!  You can’t sleep in this!”  He picks at Viktor’s sleeve reproachfully, and Viktor looks at him skeptically.

“I could,” he says.  “Watch me.”

“Vitya!” Yuuri laughs.  “Go put something more comfortable on.  Come on!”

“But I’m already horizontal,” Viktor protests.

Yuuri sighs.  Inwardly, he can’t help his relief; tired, whiny Viktor is much, much better than upset, snappish Viktor.  At least right now he’s admitting he needs rest, which is a step up, _especially_ because he’s letting Yuuri take care of him.   _Finally._

“Come on,” he repeats, taking Viktor’s wrist and tugging him up.  “Do I need to do that for you, too?”

He’s teasing, of course he is, but Viktor perks up and winks.

“Yes,” he says.  “I’ll lie here and you can take care of my clothes.”

There’s a heartbeat of silence while Yuuri stares incredulously, face heating at the thought, and then Viktor bursts into laughter.

“You’re still absolutely adorable when you blush,” he says, while Yuuri buries his face in his hands.  “Did you know I thought that on the very first day we met?  You can ask Yura, even—I texted him to say you’re cute and he blocked me.  You blush so easily, darling.”

Yuuri makes a vague noise of protest, face still pressed into his hands.  “You can’t just say _yes_ to that,” he complains, but his stubborn, _never-back-down-from-a-challenge_ side is coming out, and he peeps over the tops of his fingers to see Viktor still sprawled on his back, grinning indolently.

Well, _fine_ then.  Two can play at this game.

Yuuri reaches for him, starts unbuttoning his jacket, and focuses purely on his fingers and the fabric, and not at all on the surprised flush turning Viktor’s cheeks pink as he works his way down his chest.  Vindictive glee, who?  Yuuri has never felt such a thing.

“I—ah—Yuuri,” Viktor attempts, and Yuuri can’t hide a grin of his own, because _that was an honest-to-god actual squeak_.  “You don’t—you don’t actually have to—I was… kidding…”

Yuuri finishes with the jacket and after only a moment’s hesitation, moves on to the shirt.  He’s seen Viktor shirtless before, after all—he usually sleeps in a robe and sometimes, on cooler nights, pants under that, and he isn’t shy about changing his clothes in front of Yuuri—so this much, he can manage.

Viktor grabs a pillow and presses it over his face.

_“Yuuri,”_ he whines into it.  “This isn’t _fair,_ I’m pale and you can make me blush way too easily…”

“Oh?” Yuuri asks, moving on to the third button.  Viktor _is_ pale, especially his chest, yes.  His blush is extending down to his neck now, and it’s frankly adorable.  “Should I also text Yura to tell him that you’re cute when you blush?”

“This is unfair!” Viktor wails again, pressing the pillow harder against his face.  Yuuri knows he’s blushing, too, but it’s too funny to stop now, and in a moment of daring, he leans down and presses a kiss to the hollow at the base of Viktor’s throat.

Viktor squeaks again.

Yuuri laughs.  Then he grabs his hands and tugs.

“Okay, now sit up for a second,” he says.  “Or if you want, you can do the rest, I did the hard part for you.  No more buttons!  Or—well, you can worry about your pants.”

“ _Yuuri,”_ Viktor complains again.  He rolls over and takes a few moments to deal with the fact that Yuuri just unbuttoned his shirt, while Yuuri presses his hands to his cheeks and tries not to blush any harder or to start giggling.

Viktor finally sits up, shrugs the jacket and shirt off together, rolls off the bed, and heads for his closet to find some cozier pants.  He returns a moment later while Yuuri is still sitting there, processing what he just did, and promptly tackles him onto the bed.

“I thought you were tired!” Yuuri protests, laughing, as Viktor bodily pins him down with a grin that can only mean trouble.  “Now you’re trying to wrestle?”

Viktor’s answer is to lean in slowly, his forehead touching Yuuri’s and his gaze piercing.  His smile fades, the look in his eyes intensifies, and Yuuri closes his own eyes, heart fluttering in anticipation of a steamy kiss, and—

Viktor pecks the tip of his nose.

“Gotcha,” he grins as Yuuri opens his eyes, blinking in surprise.  “Oh, sorry, is that not what you were expecting?”

Yuuri laughs at him, relieved beyond words that he’s smiling again.  Who knew that all it would take would be bullying him away from his work desk?  He must have really been forcing himself to stay there.  No wonder it put him in a bad mood.

“Kiss me properly or else I won’t give you a back rub,” he threatens, and Viktor laughs.

“Wow, what a hard choice,” he comments, then leans down and presses his lips to Yuuri’s.  Yuuri smiles slightly and kisses back, closing his eyes again and relishing the warmth and weight of Viktor’s body on top of his, pressing close.  Viktor steals another kiss after that one, then sighs and pulls away, flopping back down onto the bed and lying on his stomach.

Yuuri straddles his legs and leans forward to start massaging his back, his thumbs pressing into the stiff, tense knots of muscle, and Viktor sighs almost immediately.  Yuuri leans down and presses a quick kiss between his shoulderblades.

“You are the best fiancé on the face of this planet,” Viktor says, sighing in bliss.  “Best.  I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Yuuri laughs.  “Close your eyes, relax.  Sleep if you want.  If you’re still awake when I’m done, I can make tea, but you should really nap for a bit.”

“Mmm,” Viktor hums.  He closes his eyes obediently, and Yuuri smiles, continuing his ministrations.

As he works, Viktor’s breathing eventually slows, and Yuuri can’t help himself, leaning over to brush aside the hair falling across his closed eyes and then pressing a slow, soft kiss to his forehead.  Viktor makes a soft sound, almost a little mewl, and Yuuri kisses his forehead again.

“You’ll be alright,” he murmurs, stroking his hair.  “I’m here for you.”

He withdraws after another moment or two, fetching another blanket from the cabinet and gently spreading it over Viktor’s sleeping form.  Viktor stirs slightly.

“Yuuri...?” he mumbles.

“I’m here,” Yuuri answers, sitting on the side of the bed and smoothing his silvery hair away from his forehead again.  “Sleep.”

Viktor reaches up to loosely twine his fingers with Yuuri’s, tucking their joined hands to himself, then heaves a sigh.  Yuuri sits with him until he’s sure he’s soundly asleep again, then slips away to see what he can do to help out with all the coronation preparatory work.  If he can ease Viktor’s burden, he will.  Viktor doesn’t need this much stress on top of everything else.

His poor dear Vitya.  Yuuri is glad he let him take care of him today, at least.

* * *

 

“My uncle,” Phichit proclaims, finding his friends in the guild’s common room and promptly  flopping onto the couch, tossing his legs across Leki’s lap, “needs to _chillax_ a little.”

Rani gives him a sympathetic look before going back to her embroidery.  “What happened this time?”

Phichit turns his head to the side, watching her needle go in and out, the colorful thread pulled tight through the fabric.  She’s stitching a short poem onto the baby’s blanket.  In, out, up, taut.  In, out, up, taut.

“He’s once again urging me to retire from the guild,” he sighs.  “Because it’s not respectable enough for a member of his family, blah blah blah...”

He loves his uncle and aunt, he really does.  But it’s the kind of love that’s... maybe better from a distance.  He hasn’t gotten along with his uncle especially for years, always butting heads over proper plans for his future.  Phichit has never wanted to inherit the family estate, more than fine with it going to his other cousin, but because that cousin doesn’t have a mother of high birth status, his traditional Xianese uncle doesn’t like it.  Which means he’s always pressuring Phichit to come be a statesman.  As _if_.

Leki pats his leg sympathetically.  “That sucks,” he says.  “Did he pull out the usual arguments?”

“Yup,” Phichit groans.  “ _Again._  As if I didn’t give him a good enough rebuttal last time.”

“Want me to go beat him up for you?” Leki jokes.  “He should stop trying to force you to be someone you don’t want to!”

“I appreciate the offer, but I don’t think it’d help my relationship with him very much,” Phichit says wryly.  He nudges his foot against his friend’s side as a vague gesture of fondness.  “Thanks, though.”

“Anytime, buddy,” Leki says, patting his leg again.  Phichit snorts.  

“So,” he says, blowing out a breath, “that’s how _my_ morning’s been going.  How about you guys?  Did intel post any new commissions?  I forgot to check the board because I was grumpy.”

“Nah,” Leki shakes his head.  “Same old, same old.  There’s one or two being processed, though, so they’ll probably be up tomorrow.  You looking to take one?”

Phichit shrugs.  “Nah, I don’t think so,” he says, tracing a flower on the couch cushion.  “I’m still pretty comfortable with what I got from the last one, y’know, when I got Chimlin?  I’ll probably need to take one in the next couple of weeks, but for now I’m good.”

Commissions to their guild that are actually accepted are kind of rare and therefore pay a _lot_ —the job that Phichit took over a month ago, the one that ended in him accidentally adopting the sweetest war elephant in the world, provided him enough money to live comfortably for the five or six weeks since and then some.

“Amir is probably going to take one of the new ones, if he can,” Rani says, pulling her needle through again.  “We’re alright too, but we’re spending a lot preparing for the baby, and he hasn’t taken one in a while.  But that’s not as big of a deal for us, I mean, so...”

Right, right, because the guild pays Rani a monthly stipend for being the resident blood mage healer, regardless of how many commissions go through.  Occasionally shadow assassins get hurt on the job, and Rani has saved lives enough times that she’s beloved of the entire guild.

“I thought he was planning to take time off to help you with the baby?” Leki asks, surprised.  “Did he change his mind?”

Rani sighs.  “Well, that was the original plan,” she says, and Phichit looks over at her with concern, because damn, she sounds tired.  “But you know my father has been sick lately, right?  His treatment is getting expensive, and we’ve been paying for a lot of it, and it’s, well... you know.”

Phichit hums sympathetically.  It must be infuriating for her, a healer, to be unable to help her own father with his illness.  Blood magic only works if the mage knows what’s going on _and_ how to fix it, but Rani’s father has a strange, degenerative disease that’s progressing very fast and has yet to receive a proper diagnosis.  How upsetting that must be.

“But,” she continues, brightening, “in better news, I finished sewing the hat I was working on last week!  It matches the blanket!”

“Your baby’s gonna be the most fashionable infant to crawl the planet,” Phichit says, grinning.  “I can’t wait to meet her!”

“Me neither!” Rani chirps.  She beams, resting a hand on her stomach for a moment, before she goes back to her sewing.

Moments pass, lapsing into a comfortable silence.  A few other members of the guild pass by, going to and fro, some sitting on other couches in the area.  Phichit glances at his phone and sighs.  The news from Ruthenia isn’t great, and given everything Yuuri has told him about the tensions in court to begin with, he’s worried.

Okay, well, like, honestly, when is he _not_ worried about Yuuri, right?  Yuuri worries about him, too, though, so it’s probably just like a “definition of best friendship” thing.  But seriously, the death of the Queen is no laughing matter.  And he knows Yuuri probably is taking it hard.

It’s still early in Ruthenia’s capital, probably too early for Yuuri to be awake, but Phichit fires off a quick _miss you love you ♥_ text before switching to Instagram to scroll pictures of cute animals.  

_I hope you’re okay,_ he thinks.   _If you’re not, say the word and I’ll kidnap you far, far away from there._

It’s not actually what Yuuri would ask, of course, but Phichit figures if he sticks him in a nice Xianese room, far away from Ruthenia’s cold winters, and then stuffs him with mango sticky rice, he’ll realize it’s great to be here anyway.  Politics be damned.  It’ll be like what they used to discuss mournfully in the night, years ago, when Yuuri was terrified of his duty and sure he couldn’t do it.

_We can fake your death,_ Phichit would joke, _and run away together.  Live somewhere really pretty in a small town and never have to deal with court ever again.  You can just be Yuuri, no prince involved.  Like you are to me!_

Yuuri would always smile tearfully and nod.   _That’s what I needed to hear, I think,_ he would answer, wiping at his eyes.   _Good to know it’s always an option, right?_

Phichit sighs again.  God, he misses his best friend.  He tries not to think about it too hard, but it really _sucks_ that they spent years together and are now apart, indefinitely.  One of these days, he’s going to take a break from being actively available for commission and just saunter into Ruthenia.  They can’t stop him.

Opening messages again, he attaches a picture of Chimlin, sends that to Yuuri, and then sticks his phone in his pocket.

He’s going to be keeping a close eye on Petersburg for the next few days.  And if those bastards in the Ruthenian Royal Court try to lay a finger on his best friend, they’d better be prepared to deal with a shadow assassin.

* * *

Coronation day arrives far too soon.  Viktor stares at the [canopy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W65cdepG8Q0) above his bed as the alarm rings, not wanting to silence it, because turning it off means he has to get up, and he doesn’t feel ready for that.  He feels far too awake.  This would be easier if he was tired enough to go through the motions without thinking about it.

The crown—and it still feels like his _mother’s_ crown, not his own—will sit too heavily on his head.  He isn’t ready.  He isn’t ready for any of this!  It’s not supposed to be time—damn it all, he was supposed to have more _time!_

“Mmmh...” Yuuri moans groggily from next to him, turning to squint at the offending phone in the pre-dawn dimness.  “‘M awake...”

“Are you,” Viktor says softly, ignoring it as it continues to beep.  “I think I’m still asleep.  This is a nightmare, right?”

At that, Yuuri stills, opening his eyes and blinking a few times.  Then he rolls over and wraps an arm and a leg around Viktor, pressing a sleepy kiss to his shoulder.

“We’ll make it through,” he murmurs.  Viktor turns to face him, burying his face in the crook of his neck and clinging there, unwilling to leave safety and security and warmth.  He inevitably has to, at some point, but just another few seconds, please...

He misses his mother.

Funny, isn’t it, that he can’t do this without her, and yet if she was still here, he wouldn’t have to do it in the first place?  What a bitter irony.   _God_ , he wants her back.

“I can’t do this,” he breathes, so soft he’s sure Yuuri didn’t hear him.  “I can’t.”

Yuuri’s fingers twine in his hair, slow and hesitant from sleep but tangibly there.  “You can,” he says.  “And I’ll be right behind you, and so will Yura, and Mila, and Georgi.  You aren’t doing it alone.”

Viktor just shakes his head.  This feels like a nightmare come to life, and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t wake up.  As if randomly breaking down in sorrow from the smallest things, like the sight of her favorite teacup or the scent of her perfume on a cushion, isn’t enough, he _also_ has to deal with the responsibility of the kingship?

Too much.  It’s too much, and he can’t do it.

But for the sake of Ruthenia and all of her people, he has to.  He doesn’t have a choice.  Abdicating would just force the crown onto Yuri, except that he’s still a minor and would need a regent, and that would just push it to Nikolai Plisetsky, who would have to come to the palace from the Plisetsky Estate, which would just open up a different can of worms, further down the line.

The point is, he can't get around this, no matter how much he might want to just run away.  

So.  He had better get up then, shouldn't he?

Instead of doing that, he presses closer to Yuuri and lets out a soft whine.  Yuuri's fingers scrunch through his hair again, faster this time, in response.  It helps a little bit.  Yuuri's sleepy reassurances are good.  In all of this, Yuuri is his rock.

“Should we get up, Vitya?” Yuuri asks gently, stroking the nape of his neck. “Or we can take five minutes.”

“Five minutes,” Viktor says softly.  He doesn't want to face the world yet, doesn't want to leave the comforting shelter of Yuuri's arms yet, doesn't want to acknowledge that today is really happening yet.

“Okay,” Yuuri agrees.  “Five minutes.  You want to cuddle? Or...”

“Don't you dare let go of me,” Viktor mumbles in response, tightening his own grip on Yuuri.

“I won’t,” Yuuri promises, giving him a reassuring squeeze.  “Right here.”

Five minutes pass far too quickly.  Viktor spends an eternity in each second, dreading the next, and trying his utmost to drown himself in Yuuri, in the feel of his silky shirt and the sound of his soft breathing.  How wonderful it would be if the rest of the world could simply cease to exist, if there could be nothing outside of his lover’s embrace, no need to ever leave it.

But all too soon, Yuuri presses a sleepy kiss into his hair and starts to withdraw.  Viktor clutches at him desperately, almost like a child clinging to his mother, and whines.  Yuuri stills, pulling him close again.

“Come on, Vitya dear,” he murmurs.  “We have to get ready soon.”

“I don’t want to,” Viktor whimpers into his shirt.  “I don’t want to, Yuuri.  I don’t want today to happen.”

“I know,” Yuuri sighs.  “I know.  But we have to.  As soon as your meeting afterward is over, we can just cuddle all evening, okay?”

That thought is more than likely going to be the only thing that keeps him going all day.  The thought of the hours spent in the coronation ceremony, not to mention the damn meeting with Ivanovich afterwards, is already making him tired, and he hasn’t even gotten out of bed yet!

But no.  He has to be strong—has to be strong for Mama.  It’s her crown and her memory and her legacy he must honor.  He has to be strong so he can uphold everything she spent her life working for.  It’s the best way to honor her memory.  He has to be strong to honor her.  He has to.

“You _are_ strong,” Yuuri whispers, and Viktor realizes he was muttering to himself.  “You’re the strongest person I know.  If anyone can do this, you can.  And I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

“I’m a mess,” Viktor shakes his head.  “I’m not—I can’t.”

“You can,” Yuuri promises, kissing his forehead so tenderly that Viktor almost bursts into tears right then and there.  He doesn’t want to leave this.  “You can.  I know you can.  I promise.”

“Do you really believe that?” he asks, closing his eyes again.  “Or are you just saying it to get me out of bed?”

“I believe it,” Yuuri says softly.  “With all of my heart.  You are strong, and when you can’t see it yourself, or when your strength runs out, I’ll be here to catch you and to hold you up until you can carry yourself again.  Okay?”

A tear leaks out and runs across his skin into his hair.  Viktor ignores it.  “Okay,” he whispers.

“Let’s get up?” Yuuri asks again.  Viktor takes a deep, shuddering breath.

It’s time to put away his insecurities and his grief.  It’s time to take up the heavy mantle his mother left behind and to become the king she trained him to be.

“Yes,” Viktor says, and even though the covers weigh at least twenty tons, he pushes them aside.  It’s one of the most difficult things he’s ever done.  Perhaps, just perhaps, Yuuri is right and he will be able to make it through today.

For her sake, if not for his own.

* * *

 

Honestly, damn Ivanovich and his insistence for a [meeting](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QYg0trjFJLk) on Coronation Day.  Viktor was so incredibly tempted to say _no_ and force him to wait, except that he can’t do that if he wants to pretend there is any attempt at amity left between them at all.  It would be quite the breach of courtesy after Ivanovich’s assurances of urgency.

Whatever.  Urgent or not, all Viktor wants to do is curl up in bed with Yuuri and ignore the world for a while.

This damn meeting had better be short.

Scowling to himself, he nods at the guards at his study door—unfamiliar faces; they must be relatively new recruits—and enters, arranges himself in the chair behind his desk, and forces his displeasure as far down as he can get it.  Letting his exhaustion make him strain an already tense relationship further is a childish mistake.

The clock chimes.  It’s the nineteenth hour, he has a meeting with _Alexei Fucking Ivanovich_ of all people, and he is so tired.

The doors swing outward then, revealing the man himself, and Viktor greets him with a calm, aloof nod.  “Lord Ivanovich,” he says, keeping his voice cordial.  “Good evening.”

“Good evening, Your Royal Majesty,” Ivanovich answers with a thin-lipped smile as he enters the room and takes the seat at the other side of the desk.  Viktor is instantly on guard, though he isn’t sure why.  Something feels off.

“Let’s get right to the point, shall we?” he asks neutrally.  “I’d hate to beat around the bush when there’s something troubling you so urgently that it couldn’t wait until even tomorrow.”

“Ah,” Ivanovich says.  “Yes, of course.  Well, you see, allow me to put this bluntly, son.”

_Son?_  Viktor bristles at the blatant disrespect.  It’s intentional, of course—every word spoken in this room is deliberate, dropping in the air delicately but with the weight of a brick.  He was coronated as king _today_ , and here Ivanovich is, showing up to inform him that he won’t respect his authority?

“I have a title, _Lord_ Ivanovich,” he says frostily.  “I suggest you use it.”

One of Ivanovich’s bushy eyebrows rises just slightly.  “Very well, _Your Majesty_ ,” he says, his voice flat and indulgent, more patronizing than the most indulgent parent to a child.  Irritation stirs, sharp and venomous, and it takes lots of effort for Viktor to fight it down.  The man is a snake.  “I’m here to let you know that that brand-new title of which you seem so enamored is, unfortunately for you, nothing more than that.  You will answer to me.”

_Treason._  Exhaustion forgotten, Viktor sits up straighter, his eyes narrowing.  “Watch yourself,” he says softly.  “I could have you arrested for that kind of talk.   _Guards!”_

Moments pass.

Nothing happens.

“Could you,” Ivanovich says drily.  “Your Majesty, I’m afraid you haven’t grasped what I am telling you.  This is a coup.  You could have me arrested only if the guards would listen to you, and unfortunately for you, Ruthenia’s armed forces have always answered to _my_ family.”

Viktor’s blood runs cold, loath as he is to admit it.  That’s true, and Ivanovich’s military ties were a long-standing concern of his mother’s, but—no.  He needs to go through records and systematically discharge all but Nikiforov loyalists from ranking positions, that’s all.

That’s all.

Nothing else is happening here.  A coup d’état on his first day with the crown—no, no, he cannot be losing his mother’s country _one day_ after taking the lead from her—

“Ah,” Ivanovich says, drawing his decorative jacket around himself as the temperature drops sharply.  “You really are predictable, Viktor.  I take away your underlings, you resort to ice elemental spells.  Did it not occur to you that we might have accounted for that, too?”

“You have fifteen seconds to convince me not to pierce your heart with an icicle,” Viktor warns.  He’s exhausted, he’s stressed, he’s grieving, and _fucking hell_ , he is _not_ handing over his mother’s crown to this horrid excuse for a man without a fight.  “I suggest you start talking.”

“As I said,” Ivanovich sighs, smugness rolling off him in waves—that, more than anything, is worrisome, is terrifying, because he seems _so assured_ of himself, and that _must_ mean he has a plan, “you are so predictable.  I have given orders already.  Your friends are being watched, _Your Majesty_.  If anything happens to me, these orders will not be called off, and I’m afraid you will have to attend another funeral very soon.”

A piece of the puzzle clicks into place neatly.  Far too late to be useful, but neatly nonetheless.  Viktor stares at Ivanovich balefully.  “It was you, wasn’t it,” he says.  “You were the one who hired the assassins.  The point was never to kill Yuuri; it was to frame Golovkina.”

“Astute as always, Your Majesty,” Ivanovich says drily.  “But don’t worry, your precious Prince Katsuki is safe for the moment.  Your other friends are the ones you ought to be concerned about.”

He has to think fast.  They must have changed their plans—somehow, they don’t want Yuuri dead, which is good for the moment but bears further contemplating—and he needs to worry about Mila and Georgi, his most outspoken supporters in court.  The Vinogradovs, too.  Yura is probably safe for now, unless their change of plans includes discarding the one where they want to mold him to their party…

Another thought strikes him, and perhaps it should have been obvious from the start, but it hits like a bucket of icy water dumped down his back.

_“You killed my mother.”_

And here it is.  The man who killed his mother is orchestrating the downfall of everything she spent her life working for, and Viktor is just sitting here in the middle of it, watching her life’s work unravel around him.

“Yes,” Ivanovich says.  He pauses.  “I _am_ sorry for your loss, Your Majesty,” and bizarrely, he sounds genuine.  “I know the two of you were close.  I wish things could have been different, but we have to do what we have to do for Ruthenia, and she was… in the way.  It was nothing personal.  I had and continue to have nothing but respect for her and her memory.”

“You,” Viktor breathes, caught somewhere between desperate rage and helpless grief, “ _do not get to speak of her memory.”_

He wants to _scream!_

How _dare_ he—how _dare he_ —

“You are clearly in shock,” Ivanovich says, shaking his head with traces of sympathy that make Viktor want to lunge across the desk and _punch_ him.  “I’ll make the rest of this brief, and we can discuss details later.  I do not want to take you from the throne _officially_.  That kind of transition would cause too much unrest in our already unstable climate, and I don’t want to put either of us through that.  Instead, you will be the figurehead of our platform for change, and Ruthenia will regain her former glory rather than wasting away like your mother’s policies would have had her do.”

“My mother,” Viktor glares, “was doing what was best for Ruthenia, and—”

“Your mother was _killing_ Ruthenia!” Ivanovich snaps, slamming his hand down on Viktor’s desk.  “Turning us into the laughingstock of the world!  Our national dignity has been dragged through the mud and it’s all thanks to your grandfather and your mother, and I will _not_ see you continue to do the same!”

“My mother worked for _peace_ ,” Viktor hisses, and decorum be damned, he digs his nails into the armrests of his chair, seething.  “You and your folk are nothing but war-mongerers and old relics.”

“Hah!”  Ivanovich shakes his head.  “Spoken like a true Nikiforov.  It’s just like you to be so self-assured and above the rest of us, isn’t it?”  He waves a hand.  “We can discuss this when you are calmer.  If you are unwilling to cooperate, not only will your remaining loved ones die, but also you _will_ be stripped of your throne.  I would prefer to make this a joint effort to avoid a revolt, but I will do what I must.”

He can _try_ , but Viktor can plan against him, now that he’s laid himself bare.  The damn fool.  If the guards aren’t to be trusted, that means Viktor has to let him walk away right now, but he can spring a trap of his own later.  Hell, he can just announce this at court tomorrow, can just—

“One final thing before I let you go, Your Majesty,” Ivanovich says, and he leans in closer, glaring hard.  Viktor glares back, defiant, because there is no way in hell he will ever let his mother’s murderer walk away without punishment, and Ivanovich had better fucking know that, when—

There’s a feeling not unlike Yuuri’s gentle empathic touches, only it’s more… outside of his head than that, if that makes sense, and it’s hard and unfriendly like a cage slamming into place around his mind.  It feels sort of like a translator spell gone wrong, and—

Oh, _no._

Viktor recognizes this feeling now.

A philological spell.

Ivanovich has been hiding his magic at court for how many years now?  And nobody ever found out?  How long has he been planning this coup?

Or—or maybe it isn’t that nobody found out.  Maybe Viktor isn’t the first person he’s ambushed like this.  Maybe…

He can’t talk.  The words are getting stuck somewhere between his mind and his mouth, and the thoughts are there in his head but they get jumbled before he can say them, and he doesn’t quite remember how to speak properly, and—

“Wh—what did you—” he chokes out, horrified.

“Don’t worry, the general effect won’t last,” Ivanovich assures him.  “But you can’t tell anyone what we talked about in this conversation.  Any attempt at incriminating me or any of my comrades in any way will fail.  And you will find yourself similarly unable to tell anyone that you’ve been spelled.”

This isn’t happening.  This _cannot_ be happening.  It’s a trap that’s been years in the making—oh, god, this might have even been in the works before Viktor was _born_ —and he’s been caught like a fly in a spider’s web, all neatly wrapped up.  How could—how could he have fallen for this?  He was supposed to be better than this, this isn’t how to uphold his mother’s legacy!

“You—” _killed my mother, you monster,_ he tries to say, but the words stick in his throat and he’s confused.  What was he saying?  He’s upset, yes, but why… His mother!  She’s dead.  She’s dead and—she was _murdered._ That’s why he’s upset!  This man killed his mother, for his own political motives, and…

And he can’t say it out loud.  He can’t remember how to word it, how those things sound or look when written, he just… he can’t…

“I bid you a good evening, King Nikiforov,” Ivanovich says, inclining his head.  “Don’t worry.  I’ll be in touch.”

The study door closes with a loud _thud_ as he leaves, and alone, sitting at his mother’s desk, in a room that he can still remember sitting on the floor in when his head didn’t quite reach the doorknob, Viktor bows his head and cries.

_I’m so sorry, Mama,_ he thinks, shaking.  “So sorry, so sorry…”

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, surrounded by painful memories and yet not wanting to move, because perhaps if he never acknowledges the passage of time beyond this moment, it won’t have happened.  The clock on the wall keeps ticking.  If he didn’t feel so weak, so disoriented, and so _pathetic,_ he would want to smash it, just to shut it up.  Time has to stop.  Tomorrow can’t come.

Suddenly, the door crashes open, and the shock makes Viktor jump, banging his knee on the underside of his desk.

“Vitya!” Yuuri gasps, running to him.  The door swings shut behind him, but not before Viktor catches a glimpse of one of the guards out there and chokes on another sob.   _I’m so sorry, so sorry, Mama, forgive me!_

Yuuri looks a little disheveled and a little out of breath as he hurries around the desk and pulls Viktor into his arms.  His heart is pounding.

“What happened?” he asks, and his hold is tight and secure.  Viktor’s head fits against his chest snugly enough for his heartbeat to hammer in his ears.  “I came as fast as I could, what happened, Vitya, my sweet Vitya?”

Viktor shakes his head.  Words are still hard, his brain feels like a mess, and the only thing that tumbles out is another wildly shaking “I’m sorry.”

_Oh,_ he realizes, the thought finally clicking into place.   _That’s right.  Yuuri was waiting for me._

Yuuri must have run here all the way from the residential wing.  He was in Yura’s room with Mila and Georgi.  They were all waiting for him.  He was late, because he was sitting here and crying, and he was crying, because...

Because...

“You didn’t do anything wrong, darling,” Yuuri murmurs, fingers rubbing little circles into the nape of his neck.  “Please tell me what’s wrong.  You were—you _are_ —so upset!  I felt—it felt like...”

He trails off, but Viktor’s fuzzy mind is still capable of filling in the rest of the sentence.   _It felt like the night your mother died._

“Can’t,” he wheezes, forcing the words out around the lump in his throat.  “Can’t.  Sorry.”

Yuuri squeezes him tighter.  “It’s okay, Vitya, it’s okay,” he murmurs.  “You don’t have to talk right now.  I’m here.  I’m here.  I won’t leave you.  Just—just cry it out, and then we can go back and sleep, okay?  I’m here.”

Oh, god, he doesn’t deserve Yuuri.  His stomach drops out, leaving him feeling hollow as Yuuri holds him.  He has to keep him safe, it’s not safe for him here, oh, god, _he’s so sorry, Mama,_ everything is falling apart, this is wrong—

“I’m so _sorry,”_ he chokes out, and Yuuri kisses the top of his head.

“It’s okay,” he assures.  “It’s okay, Vitya, you didn’t do anything wrong.  It’s okay.”

It isn’t.

* * *

The next morning, Viktor wakes bright and early as usual, slips out of bed and gets ready, kisses Yuuri’s forehead in farewell, and heads to his study.  He needs to think very carefully, with a clear mind and a sharp wit, in order to find all ways around this attempted power grab.

The guards, he notes, must know that he now is aware of their allegiances.  And that’s worrisome—until he knows how far this corruption goes, he must assume he cannot trust any of his palace staff.  It’s completely possible that Ivanovich has cronies beyond the barracks and court.  He needs to verify that Alina is trustworthy as soon as possible—not that he’d like to doubt her, or Bita, but Alina is Yuuri’s bodyguard and Viktor _needs_ Yuuri to be safe.

The list of people he needs to keep safe is simultaneously very long and very short.  His most notable allies at court are House Babicheva and House Popovich, so that translates to their representatives—Mila and Georgi—and then, of course, Yura and Yuuri.  Beyond them, there’s the entire list of “supporters of House Nikiforov”, but Viktor has a sneaking suspicion that the ones he’s going to be blackmailed with first are those known to be close to him.

That means he needs contingency plans.  Ideally, until he can purge the palace staff of treasonous, untrustworthy folk, all of them need to be away from here so that they can’t be hung over his head.  It’ll be beyond lonely, especially after all the happiness he’s experienced in the past few months, but...

But his mother is dead and his heart is numb, steely, and frozen.  He honestly feels more like a cold, icy prince than he has in years—everything is closed off, and he can think incredibly objectively if he just ignores his own desires and emotions.

He can handle whatever this coup throws at him.  He has to, for his mother’s legacy.

So.

Isolation.

Georgi is probably the easiest to get rid of.  His grandmother has been ill recently, and he hasn’t been home to the Popovich estates in a while.  Of course a grieving king and _friend_ would suggest a visit, because he would hate for Georgi to have been away for so long in case his grandmother doesn’t make it, and _of course_ Georgi would have to take such a suggestion as a politely worded order.  Done.  No need for official channels, just a quick conversation.

He blows out a breath, continuing to stare at the documents on his computer screen without really seeing them.  That’s one out of the way, three to go.

Yura is also a pretty easy one, thankfully.  His plans to either invite or visit Prince Altin of Qazrazi are still up in the air, and could be solidified into a _go visit, and for a while_ without too much difficulty.  That would require some official channels, but Viktor supposes he could pull it off quickly, even with the bureaucracy.

If only he could warn Yura of the danger.  If only this awful, horrendous spell didn’t send him into confusion and dazedness every time he even considers saying _anything._  The damning thing about philological spells are that they are based on intent, not technicalities, so he can’t even try to be clever and go around it.  If he means to inform someone, the spell kicks in.  It’s handy for applications like language translation, where general meanings are more useful than exact wordings, but for this...

He still wants to scream.

Mila is a bit of a trickier case.  She was the one who overheard Ivanovich and Petrov talking— _talking about this,_ Viktor realizes, and that means she must know at least something—and that means she’s in danger, too.  If he could get her out of the country for a while, that would be optimal.  Somewhere where the Ruthenian government can’t touch her.

Maybe Víteliú?  Could he somehow get Princess Sara to invite her for a visit?  Maybe if he hinted that she’s just been terribly stressed and that he thinks it would be good for her, “as a friend and not as a king”?

It’s a possibility.  He makes a note of it to himself, then sighs.  He can come back to this.

His phone buzzes with a text, but he doesn’t glance at it yet.  He still has to think.  These plans, unfortunately, can’t be written down, mostly because he’s afraid of someone involved in the coup (a maid?  A guard?  Who knows) reading them, which means he just has to keep them all in his head.  Which is not optimal, given how fuzzy the spell makes his head feel—and _god_ , if that isn’t the most frustrating thing—but he can’t see any other options!

He sighs, leans back in his chair, and listens to the creaking of the leather as he shifts his weight.  He’s so tired.  Why couldn’t he just have time to rest?  This isn’t fair!

...But no.  It might not be fair, but this is the hand he’s been dealt, and he would be dishonoring his mother if he just sat here and pouted about it, wouldn’t he?  Much better to actually _do_ something about it.

Which brings him to Yuuri.

Yuuri, frankly...

He’s worried about Yuuri.  For starters, there’s no way to really easily send his own fiancé far away; moreover, Yuuri has already been targeted once.  Ivanovich promised his safety for now, but Viktor doesn’t trust that slimy little man as far as he can throw him.  Yuuri, he is very worried about.

Plus, and this possibility makes his stomach turn, it’s generally known in the palace that because of their teatime, Yuuri was one of the last people to see his mother alive.  There are nasty rumors he’s heard whispers of, just the barest of snippets, mentioned to him in Duchess Baranovskaya’s intelligence briefing yesterday—

Those rumors worry him, too.  As does the ability of the perpetrators of this coup to hide it so well under the radar.  It fills him with equal parts dread and awe, how incredibly well it’s been planned, how many years must have gone into it.

Did he say he’s worried about Yuuri?  That wasn’t strongly worded enough.  He’s _terrified_ for Yuuri.

Suddenly, the bookshelf clicks—it’s a secret passage, one that leads to his chambers—and Viktor jumps slightly.

“You didn’t answer your phone,” Yuuri says, and Viktor swivels around in his chair.  Yuuri stands in the opening of the passage, still looking not-quite-awake.  He’s clad (adorably) in one of Viktor’s loose-knit sweaters over his pajamas, and has obviously just come looking for him.

“Sorry,” Viktor apologizes.  “I was thinking.”

“S’okay,” Yuuri yawns.  He steps into the study fully, closing the bookshelf door behind him, and sighs sleepily, rubbing his eyes.  “I was just worried if you were okay, that’s all.  Thought I might keep you company at least...”

Touched, Viktor can’t help but smile at him, chuckling when he stifles another yawn.  “I wouldn’t mind the company, but really, you look exhausted.  You can go back to sleep, dear.  Thank you.”

“Mmh.  I can do both,” Yuuri says, and instead of heading back for the bookshelf, he just plops down in Viktor’s lap, wraps his legs loosely around Viktor’s waist, and lays his head on his shoulder, making himself cozy while Viktor shifts in surprise.  “You can think.  I’ll sleep.”

A fond laugh bubbles up in Viktor’s throat, coming out as he wraps his arms around Yuuri too, rubbing his back.  His legs are going to be numb after this, but somehow, he can’t bring himself to mind.  “Alright,” he says, leaning his cheek against Yuuri’s hair.  “Thank you, dear heart.  Rest well.”

Yuuri hums, hugs him loosely, and presses a sleepy kiss to his shoulder.  “Wake me if you need anything.  Don’t wanna see you sad.”

Viktor presses him close.  “Of course,” he murmurs, mind already racing.   _I have to protect you,_ he thinks, and that’s when a horrible realization clicks into place—

What if the reason Ivanovich promised him that Yuuri would be safe for now is that he wants to use those rumors to tear apart the alliance?  Hell, if he frames Yuuri properly, it might even be enough to ignite a _war_ —the prince from Hinomoto murdering Ruthenia’s queen?  Outrageous!

An icy fist reaches up and clenches his heart, pulling it down to the pit of his stomach.   _Fuck._  They can’t—wouldn’t do that—they _can’t!_

Right?

(War is profitable and Ivanovich stands to gain the most from it.  And it all makes too much sense.)

Fuck.   _Fuck._

“I love you,” he blurts out, burying his face in Yuuri’s hair.

“Mm,” Yuuri hums, a smile in his voice.  “Love you too.  You’re upset.”

“I am,” Viktor agrees.  “But... I can’t... Let’s not talk about it right now.  Please?”

He would love nothing more than to tell Yuuri, but he’s afraid of the spell kicking in, and he can’t afford to have his mind go fuzzy and blank on him right now, not when he’s figuring it out and putting the puzzle pieces together.  He has to do this alone.

“Okay,” Yuuri mumbles.  “Tell me later, though.  Okay?”

“I can try,” Viktor says softly.  It feels like a lie.

He has to do something about this.  Yuuri, his precious, loving Yuuri, falling asleep in his arms, means the world to him.  He _can’t_ let them hurt his Yuuri—just thinking of him being arrested, brought to trial, and even executed for his mother’s murder...

It doesn’t bear thinking about.

_I will protect you,_ he vows silently, while Yuuri sighs and presses his face against his neck, no doubt feeling cozy and secure.   _I will keep you safe, I promise._

If only he knew how.

* * *

 

[20:38] Yuuri:  
hey

[20:38] homobipboa:  
hey <3 how are you?

[20:39] Yuuri:  
not great tbh lmao

[20:39] homobipboa:  
what’s up fam. talk to me

[20:39] Yuuri:  
well. aside from yknow… grief…  
i just. im worried abt vitya all the time. and yura. theyre both taking this so hard  
understandably!!!! it was their mom/aunt who just died!!! and i mean she was a blood mage, its pretty damn obvious she was poisoned even if we cant say it outright without proof???  
i just feel like i have to be here for both of them and it makes me really mad at myself when i get upset bc like, it wasn’t MY mom, how can i ask vitya for support when he has so much more cause to be upset than i do, right????

[20:41] homobipboa:  
(quietly interrupting with a “no that’s not right”, but continue)

[20:41] Yuuri:  
and like it just makes me feel so tired bc i have to be here for them when they need me, esp vitya bc phichit hes so so lonely and he never turns to anyone for help and he needs me! and he’s so sad and i just want to take care of him!  
but when i feel bad i cant say anything bc i don’t want to trouble him now, not like this  
but its just so TIRING living like i have to constantly be strong  
i feel like a rubber band thats about to snap!!! one more thing goes wrong and ill just have 47583 breakdowns and die i guess  
idk where im going with this haha  
just babbling ig sorry

[20:43] homobipboa:  
yuuri you know youre definitely allowed to be upset too right??????  
nobody is expecting you to be an endless font of strength and comfort. youre allowed to cry too  
cry on viktor. maybe he’ll cry too but you’ll both feel better in the end. maybe itll even comfort him to know he’s not the only one who misses her so much

[20:44] Yuuri:  
i don’t want him to feel like he has to take care of me  
im here to take care of HIM  
she even asked me to do that. told me that when shes gone she wanted me to take care of him  
i just never thought it would be this soon  
i thought we had time phichit

[20:45] homobipboa:  
i know. i know you did. i’m sorry. <3 <3 <3 *hugs*  
hey, do you wanna video call? you can keep talking to me and i can show you cute elephant things to cheer you up maybe

[20:46] Yuuri:  
that… sounds really good, yeah  
thank you  
i love you

[20:46] homobipboa:  
i love you too!!!!!!! <3 <3 <3

_[Incoming call from: homobipboa.  Duration 1:32:48]_

* * *

Feeling immeasurably grateful for the King and Queen of Qazrazi’s understanding, Viktor takes a few minutes to breathe after finalizing the travel documents before he summons Yura to his sitting room.  He sends for some coffee, too, and by the time Yura arrives (one minute late, probably on purpose), two cups are sitting on the table, waiting.  Both have gratuitous amounts of cream and sugar, just how the two of them like it.

“Hi,” Yura says.  As soon as the door closes behind him, his shoulders slump, and the corners of his mouth tug downward.  He, too, is sad.  All of them are, these days.  Viktor misses the happiness of last month.

“Hi,” Viktor answers.  He pats the sofa cushion next to him, and Yura blows out a sigh before coming around the coffee table to plop himself down with a _whump_.  “How are you today?”

“You already know,” Yura says, tired and exasperated and drained.  Viktor’s heart twinges for him.  “Can we cut the bullshit and get to the real reason you wanted an ‘official’ meeting with me instead of just coming by my room or whatever?”

Viktor sighs, sips his coffee, and sets it back on the table.  “Alright,” he says.  “Crown Prince Altin can't come here for a visit.”  He pauses, preemptively holding up a hand to forestall the angry outburst of protest he knows is coming.  Predictably, Yura looks somewhere between outraged and crestfallen, doing his best to hide it behind a mask of fury.

“You can't do that!” he starts to complain.  

Wordlessly, Viktor points to the heavy golden crown resting heavily atop his head, and Yuri’s mouth closes with sullen reluctance.  He sinks further into the couch, crossing his arms and scowling, but Viktor knows him well enough to see the bitter disappointment written in every line if his body.

“Now, little cousin,” he says, folding his hands across his lap, “if you'll allow me to _finish_ , I was attempting to explain to you that he cannot come here next month, because at the end of next week, I am sending _you_ to Qazrazi.  I am aware that this is sooner than originally planned, but I've already discussed it with King and Queen Altin and they are amenable to the schedule shift, so—”

He's abruptly cut off when Yura tackles him in a fierce hug, eyes squeezed shut.  Probably against tears, though Viktor figures if he asked Yura would just deny it until his dying breath.

“Thank you thank you _thank you,_ stupid Vitya,” he mumbles into his shirt, the words tumbling out in a rush, and Viktor softens, patting the boy’s head with relief.

Thank _god_ this part of the plan is going over well.  Truth be told, telling Yura about the change of plans was the part he was least worried about, but it was also the last part of the plan to get Yura to safety, and now that it's been taken care of, Viktor feels like he can finally breathe again.

“You're welcome,” he says as Yura releases him and steps back. “I, ah... I thought you might want to get away from here for a while.”

“Yeah,” Yura mutters, looking down. “...Feels wrong, sitting in your seat in court.”

“Yeah,” Viktor agrees softly. “Feels wrong sitting in hers, too.”

He rests a hand on Yura’s shoulder, and for once doesn't get shrugged off immediately. Yura lays his hand on top of his for a moment, holding his eyes steadily, before he sighs and drops it again.

“...You're being weirdly kind,” he says, staring up with a scrutinizing gaze. “Is there a real reason you're getting rid of me?”

Viktor, if he had less self restraint, could probably win a world record for “bitterest laugh in human memory”.  As it is, he just quirks a humorless smile at his cousin.

“Just be careful, Yura,” he says. “There are lots of forces in this world that would like to hurt you.  Don’t let them.  For her sake, never give in.  Keep your head up, and keep your guard up, too.”

He squeezes Yura’s shoulder, then withdraws his hand.  Yura squints at him, cogs of thought obviously turning in his head.  Yura wears his heart on his sleeve, if one knows how to read him—that’s a habit he’ll have to divest himself of.  Or, rather... he will be forced to drop it, sooner or later, because if he doesn’t, court will eat him alive.  But he already knows that.

“...You’re acting weird,” Yura says, wrinkling his nose.  “Something’s going on, isn’t it?”

_Yes,_ Viktor wants to say, only his brain goes all muddled and the word gets lost somewhere between his thoughts and his tongue.  He blinks, and the confusion clears again.  Pressing his lips together, he admits defeat for the moment.  There _has_ to be a way around this, but he hasn’t found it yet.

“Nothing you need to trouble yourself with.”  He sighs, runs a frazzled hand through his hair, and pastes on a reassuring smile.  “You’ll be in Qazrazi for the next two months.  Make sure you pack well.  I’d hate for you to forget anything important here.”

Yura sighs shortly, folding his arms over his chest with just the barest hint of a pout.  “Fine,” he huffs.  “Don’t tell me.  I’ll find out myself, whatever.”  He pulls away, picks up his coffee, and drains the cup in a long pull, setting it back down with a _clink._  “Is that all?”

Viktor nods.  “That’s all,” he says.  “You’re dismissed, Prince Plisetsky.”

Yura gives him a long, discerning look that’s alarmingly similar to Yuuri’s skeptical one.

“Alright,” he finally says.  “I’m gonna go pack then, I guess.”

“Do that,” Viktor agrees mildly, watching his cousin’s retreating back as he heads to the door.  He sips his own coffee more slowly, only pausing when Yura’s hand is reaching for the knob.  “And Yura?”

Yura pauses, turns his head, and tilts it to the side.

“Be careful,” Viktor repeats.  “I mean it.”

“I’m always careful,” Yura snorts, and with that he takes his leave.  Viktor stares at the door for a long time after he’s gone. 

* * *

 

Thank god for Yuuri, honestly.  

Mila has a feeling that he’s the only reason Viktor has been holding it together recently—he’s _definitely_ the only reason she’s seen Viktor outside of court ever since the coronation.   _Tea parties,_ he said primly, hands folded in his lap, _are good for everyone’s well-being, and a few minutes to de-stress together never hurt anybody._  She still kind of wants to laugh at the memory of Yuuri insistently ushering a protesting Viktor into an armchair, unwilling to take no for an answer, until he sat and allowed a cup of tea (jasmine green) to be pressed into his hand.

Today’s variety is a lovely almond black tea blend, and while it’s still too hot to drink, the scent wafting up in the steam is positively heavenly.

“You’re like a mother hen, Katsudon,” Yuri snorts, and Yuuri looks up, blinking.

“Why do you say that?” he asks, adjusting his glasses with one hand.  The other is stirring milk and sugar into Viktor’s tea, which Yuri is pointedly staring at.

“You keep _fussing,”_ he says.  “‘ _Oh, did you want sugar?’ ‘Oh, let me stir that for you!’ ‘Did you eat today?’ ‘Have you been sleeping well?’_ to _all_ of us!”

Yuuri huffs in protest.  “I’m not _fussing,_ I’m just asking out of friendly concern—”

“—Or not just _friendly_ ,” Viktor interjects with a wan flicker of a smile, leaning in to peck Yuuri’s cheek.  “Thanks, dear.”

Yuuri goes a little pink in the face, but sighs and returns the kiss as he takes the spoon and sets it aside.  “Yes, but I know how _you’ve_ been sleeping.”

They’re so domestic.  It would be adorable if it wasn’t in large part because Yuuri is always worried about Viktor not taking care of himself because of grief.  Mila smiles at the both of them anyway, because there haven’t been enough smiles around here lately.

“Have you finished packing for Qazrazi?” Yuuri asks, looking back at Yuri.  “You’re leaving in six days, right?”

Yuri waves a hand.  “Yeah, yeah, I told my attendants to just dump half my closet in the bags and be done with it.  It’s whatever.  Anything I forget I can just get there.”

“Well, alright,” Yuuri says.  “I guess that works.  I’m glad you already took care of it!”

“Mother hen,” Yuri repeats.  

“A very sweet, kind, loving hen,” Viktor says, and he uses the arm he’s already wrapped around Yuuri’s waist to tug Yuuri closer to him, squishing their cheeks together for a moment.  Yuuri pets his head in response.  “You’re too good for us.”

“Hey, speak for yourself, old man,” Yuri jumps in indignantly.  “ _I’m_ good enough to deserve him even if you suck!”

Mila laughs.  “Wow,” she says.  “So transparent, Yura.  If you’re not careful, we’ll start to think you actually have some regard for Yuuri.”

“Shut up, Babacheva,” Yuri says immediately, just as she knew he would.  Some things, luckily, never change.  Funny.  She never thought she’d find being called a grandmother _comforting_.  She’ll have to tell Sara that, later.  She’ll get a laugh out of it, before she crumbles into sending every heart emoji she has on her phone and promising lots of hugs if Mila ever comes to visit.  Mila would love to go visit her, and soon.  She just doesn’t want to abandon Viktor so soon after his coronation.  Surely he wants to keep his allies close, especially now that Yuri’s leaving!

A sharp rap on the door stops the laughter, and all of them immediately stiffen.  Viktor sits up straight, removing his arm from Yuuri’s waist before he calls a “Come in,” and the door swings open to admit a distraught Alina Sharapova, who is supposed to be standing guard outside the door.

“Your Majesty,” she says, and Yuuri half rises, concern written in his face.  Mila looks at her, uncertain but wanting to help, but—what’s _wrong?_  “Your Majesty, I... I have news.”

Viktor, also concerned, waves her over, and she walks around the couch to lean over the back and whisper something to him before she bursts into tears and turns away.  Viktor goes deathly pale and looks vaguely sick.

“No,” he whispers.  “Y-you’re saying... the same way...”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Alina manages, wiping at her face.  “I—I’m sorry.  You will have to excuse me from my post for the rest of the day.  I will be taking a leave of absence as well.  I just... I—I can’t.”

“Of course,” Viktor says immediately.  “I could never ask you to—I’m so sorry, Alina.  You are dismissed, if... if you’d like to leave us for some privacy.  If there’s anything I can do...”

“I think being involved with your court has done enough for us,” Alina bites out.  She looks scandalized a second later, shaking her head.  “I—that was out of line.  My apologies, Your Majesty.  But I do not think I’ll be needing any assistance.”

She turns on her heel and practically sprints from the room, the door closing behind her with an ominous _thud._ Everyone silently turns to look at Viktor.

“Um,” Mila says.

“The fuck?” Yuri asks, more eloquently.

“Vitya?” Yuuri says softly, placing his hand on Viktor’s arm.  Viktor takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“I did something wrong,” he whispers.  Then he looks up at all of them, desperation and helplessness shining in his eyes.  “Captain Bita Sharapova is dead.  She appears to have had a heart attack, similar to the one that claimed the life of—the life of my mother.”

The words fall with the weight of stones.  All levity drains from the room.

“Oh,” Mila breathes.

“Oh,” Viktor agrees, and smiles the bitterest, saddest smile she’s ever seen.  “Oh, indeed.”

* * *

**Private Messages (1)**

**Type:** Read-only, Delete Once Read  
Subject: Captain Sharapova  
**Sender:** Alexei Ivanovich  
**Received:** 17:05

**Message:**

Your Majesty,

You were warned that you could only step out of line at the cost of your friends.  I trust you will be more wary in the future.

Regards.

* * *

It takes Viktor the better part of the day to work up the courage to do what he has to do to save Yuuri’s life.  He can’t stop hesitating, trembling, and doubting himself, the weight of Captain Sharapova’s death and her wife’s grief-stricken eyes pulling his soul down, down, down, beneath the waves where he will drown.

But he must be a selfish man, because he can’t—he _can’t_ give up.  

The more he thinks about it, the more certain he is that he was right, that Ivanovich and his fellows want to frame Yuuri and provoke a war.  It makes too much sense.  And he can’t let it happen.  Truly, he is a selfish man—it might seem like preventing useless bloodshed that will only be initiated to line the pockets of a select few is a noble, kingly deed, but frankly, that’s not why Viktor is so desperate to do this.  Maybe it’s wrong of him, but his primary motivation isn’t what it should be.  

He just knows he won’t survive seeing Yuuri executed for a crime he didn’t commit.  The thought of those beautiful brown eyes filling with tears, of Yuuri’s hands no longer being warm and gentle but instead just cold and limp, of the way the court will rip him to shreds before condemning him to die... Viktor can’t handle any of that.

Which is why he needs to get Yuuri away from here.  Far, far away, somewhere where he will be safe from the monsters in the heart of Ruthenia’s court.

_I am a selfish man,_ he thinks, _and I want him to be safe.  And yet my very same selfishness is what makes me want to hold onto him and never let go._

The thought of facing court himself without Yuuri at his side, of going back to the desperate loneliness that he lived in before Yuuri came into his life, is horrific.  He wants to cry and scream and run away from it.

But here’s the thing.  He _knows_ how to turn his heart to ice, how to live that life, and how to be that king.  Even if he doesn’t want to do it because it hurts, he knows how, and it will keep Yuuri alive and safe.  And it might well prevent a war.

It also might get someone else killed, but _damn him,_ Viktor knows that deep down, he’s already made his choice.  He has to save Yuuri.  Saving Yuuri comes with stopping a war.  Keeping Yuuri here just means he loses everything.

It still takes him a long time to be able to leave his study and go back to his chambers, where he knows Yuuri is waiting for him.  Yuuri is always here for him.  Always.  

His steps in the corridor are slow and reluctant and rather remind him of a funeral procession.  How fitting, isn’t it?  But he reaches his rooms all too soon, and after a breath to steel himself, knows that he cannot turn back now.

When he opens the door, Yuuri is already standing.  Of course he is.  Of course he knows.

“You’re upset,” he says, coming forward, reaching for him.  “What’s wrong?”

Viktor meets him halfway, catching his wrists and skimming his fingers up his arms before they drop back to his hips, drawing him close until they’re melting into each other.  Yuuri’s warm, solid form pressed against his chest is enough to make tears prick at his eyes.  

After all, perhaps this will be their last [embrace](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ad7ejBn3KSQ).

“I need to tell you something,” he murmurs, bowing his head until his lips brush Yuuri’s ear.  “You aren’t going to like it.”

“Tell me,” Yuuri insists, pressing him closer.  The concern, the love, and the worry in his voice are all present enough to send guilt coursing through Viktor’s veins, but that’s all overshadowed by the fear, by the fierce desire—the _need_ —to protect.  His arms tighten around Yuuri.

_I will not let you come to harm.  I will not let them touch you, never ever._

“I promised you,” he begins, and draws back from Yuuri, takes a breath because _he can’t say this_ but he has to anyway, then licks his lips and tries again.  “I promised you I would protect you.”

“Yes,” Yuuri says, confused.  Viktor gazes into his eyes, warm and dark brown and bewildered.  He’s beautiful, from the lines of his jaw to the curve of his cheeks to the soft hair on his head, and Viktor cherishes every second they have left.  The silken, embroidered robe under his fingers, warm from Yuuri’s body, or the press of Yuuri’s hands into his back—none of it goes unnoticed. “And you have.”

“I always will,” he pledges, deadly serious.  He leans in, presses his lips to Yuuri’s forehead, and closes his eyes slowly, as if that’ll shield him from the words he’s about to say.

“Vitya?” Yuuri prompts gently.  “What is it?”

“Yuuri,” he says, his lips still against Yuuri’s forehead.  “Let’s end this.”

“End what?” Yuuri asks, still soft and encouraging, and Viktor’s heart sinks.  He doesn’t get it.  Of course he doesn’t get it.

_I could try to tell him,_ Viktor thinks, hoping desperately against hope that he can overpower the spell on him with the strength of will alone.  But the second the thought crosses his mind, the world goes a little sideways, just off-kilter enough to give him pause.  How... words?  Sentences form... No, no.

_Danger... you..._ no!  No, that’s not it— _wrong blame no_ —and that’s wrong too, how does—how can—he doesn’t remember—what was he saying?  He was saying something.

Something, something, something...

“Vitya?  Sweetheart, end what?”

Yuuri’s voice pulls him back to reality with a _pop_ , and just like that, any threads of whatever he had been trying to grasp vanish.  He blinks.

And remembers.

_Of course,_ he thinks, anguished.   _To save his life, I have to break his heart._

Perhaps it’s selfish of him, but he cannot bring himself to be anything but gentle, to be unkind or to touch Yuuri without tender hands.  He slides one hand down Yuuri’s arm again, until he finds his palm, lifting his fingers until he can press a kiss to the engagement ring on Yuuri’s hand, lingering, hating himself already.  It takes the strength of ten thousand men to slowly lift his gaze to meet Yuuri’s again, still bent with their joined hands near his lips.

“Us,” he says softly, squeezing Yuuri’s fingers.  “Let’s end us.”

Yuuri reels back as if slapped.

_“What?”_ he breathes.  “I don’t understand—you want to break off our engagement?  Why?  What—was it something I did?  I’m sorry, Vitya, I—but what about the alliance?  I know I’m not—but we can’t just—please, _please,_ talk to me, please,” and then to Viktor’s horror, he falls to his knees, his face crumpling with sudden, suppressed tears.  “Tell me what I did wrong.  We can fix this.   _Please,_ Vitya.  If not for me, for the alliance.  Please, my people—I can’t fail them now, just—just give me a chance, Vitya, please!”

His chest hurts.  There’s a physical ache in his heart, and oh, god, how badly he wants to take it back, wants to sweep Yuuri into his arms and whisper _I’m sorry I don’t mean it you’re perfect never leave my side I love you don’t leave me._

The thought of Yuuri, shackled, small and alone, having to face the wrath of the Ruthenian court, stops him in his tracks.  He thinks of having to preside over that hearing, shudders to think of tapping that accursed gavel—

—but then, he realizes that he wouldn’t be presiding.  Yura would be, through his regent—

—and that’s somehow worse.

_I will protect you, I will protect you, I will protect you, even from myself, even if it breaks both of us in the process.  I will protect you, my darling my heart my love._

He kneels, too, slow, sorrowful, and deliberate as he tips Yuuri’s chin up and leans in to kiss him, soft and gentle, as tender as he can be.  Yuuri’s breath hitches.  There’s a choked sob in his throat.

“You have done nothing wrong, my cherished one,” he murmurs.  “But my decision is final and irrevocable.  I will renegotiate the terms of the alliance.  Don’t worry about your people.  I will keep them safe, and you can go home to them.”

Yuuri closes his eyes, trembling, and shakes his head.  A tear slides down his cheek, and he angrily dashes it away.  “Why?” he whispers.  He sounds tortured.  “Why, Vitya?”

Viktor kisses him again.  He can’t help himself, knowing after this he might never have the chance again.  Yuuri kisses him back, too, kisses him with a desperate urgency, frantic and pleading.  He breaks the kiss, strokes Yuuri’s hair, and says with regret, “I can’t tell you.”

Yuuri pulls back, opening his eyes.  He lets out a biting, humorless laugh, and Viktor winces, already missing the feel of him in his arms.

“So,” he says, wrapping his arms around himself.  “That’s it.  We’re over, it’s ‘not you it’s me’, and you won’t tell me why.  That’s it?”

“I _can’t_ tell you why,” Viktor corrects, a little desperately himself.  “I love you.”

“I—”  Yuuri cuts himself off, hopelessly frustrated, and angrily wipes at his face again.  “I don’t know what to tell you!”

“You don’t have to tell me anything, darling,” Viktor says dully.  This is it.  They’ve had their last kiss, their last embrace, their last... everything.  Yuuri is angry, Yuuri will leave Ruthenia angry, and Yuuri will hate him.  

But Yuuri will live.

He clings to that, repeats it to himself like a mantra.   _He will live, he will live, he will live._ It’s fine if Yuuri hates him, so long as Yuuri is _safe._  Once he leaves Ruthenia, nobody from this court will be able to touch him, and they won’t be able to use him as a scapegoat to start a war.  He will live.  He will be safe.

“Stop calling me—stop being _affectionate!”_ Yuuri hisses, dashing tears from his eyes again.  “You can’t—you can’t break up with me out of nowhere and keep calling me _darling!_ What is wrong with you?”

Viktor closes his eyes, sinking the rest of the way to the floor.  “I’m sorry, Yuuri.  I am very sorry.  But I have to do this.  Please trust me.”

“...I do,” Yuuri whispers.  “I hate myself for it right now, but god help me, I do trust you.”

_God,_ Viktor wants to kiss him again.

But one kiss will turn into two, and two into three, and then the press of lips will turn into whispers of _don’t leave me, I need you, I love you,_ and he knows he’s too weak to do this a second time.  He can’t.

“You should start packing your things,” he says instead, and how he hates himself for being too weak to open his eyes and look Yuuri in the eye as he says it.  He forces himself to look a moment later anyway, rising to his knees, and finds Yuuri sitting on the floor, trembling.

“This is real,” he whispers.  “This is happening.  You’re... you’re serious.  I can’t—I can’t fix it.”

“This is real,” Viktor confirms, ripping out the rest of his heart with the words.  “You can’t fix it, because you never did anything wrong.  There’s nothing for you to fix.  I just... oh, sweetheart, I can’t do this.  I’m sorry.”

He gives in a little bit, reaches for Yuuri and helps him to his feet, holds his hands and brushes his thumb over his knuckles.  Yuuri chokes on a sob.

“This doesn’t have to be a forever,” he tells Yuuri, as if it’s any consolation at all.  “We... we might find our place in this world, someday.  Just... not today.  I’m _sorry,_ Yuuri.”

Yuuri shakes his head wordlessly.  There are tears shining in his eyes, and Viktor hates himself for every sparkle and every glimmer he sees.

“Can...”  Viktor swallows hard, squeezing his hands.  His voice is low, raw, and vulnerable.  “Can I hold you?”

Yuuri snatches his hands away as though burned, burying his face in them as another sob tears its way out of his throat, and Viktor supposes that that’s answer enough.  He expected this, but it still hurts.

_He’s safe if he stays away from you,_ he reminds himself, but the consolation is hollow.  The lump in his throat is big enough that swallowing is painful.

“Alright,” he says, shoulders slumping.  He turns back to the door he came from, adding over his shoulder, “That’s fair enough.  You should start packing your things when you can.  Let me know if you want me to help with anything.”

His hand is on the doorknob when Yuuri’s watery voice stops him in his tracks.

“Wait,” he says, sniffling.  “Wait.  Vitya—Vityen’ka...”

And oh, how Viktor’s heart wrenches in his chest.  It twists and strains and _shatters,_ falling down in a rain of a thousand glass shards that tear deep, painful gashes in his soul, and it’s all he can do to stop himself from turning around, from running to Yuuri and kissing him until the tears stop, and whispering a thousand apologies into his lips.

Soft footsteps hesitantly approach, and he knows it’s now or never.  How he detests himself for this, for hurting his Yuuri.

No.  Not his.

He lost the right to call Yuuri _his_ when he took both of their hearts and broke them.  Yuuri is...

Safe.  Yuuri is safe.  

A hand tentatively brushes his shoulder.  “Vitya, please,” Yuuri chokes out.

It’s now or never.  If Viktor gives in, turns and embraces Yuuri, if he lets himself slip, he knows he won’t be able to let go.  He can’t.  He _can’t._

So he hardens the remnants of his heart, swallows the nausea and guilt and self-hatred in his throat, and pushes the door open.

“I’m making the announcement official in the morning,” he says gently.  “Good night, my d—I mean, good night, Yuuri.”

He steps out into the hallway without looking back, closing the door behind himself with a soft _click._

_I need a moment,_ he thinks, leaning back against the wood with a deep sigh.  His head falls back against it, and he closes his eyes, running a hand through his hair and taking a long, shaky breath to try to steady himself.

There’s a soft thump from the other side of the door, and an even softer sob.  Viktor stills, realizing with even more guilt and horror that Yuuri, oh, dear precious Yuuri, is slumped against the other side, crying.

He can’t stay here.  He needs a moment, but not here.

“Good night, my love,” he whispers, and presses back against the wood as if it’ll bring him closer to Yuuri, just for a moment.  The sound of another sniffle and a choked cry pulls him out of his thoughts again, and he shakes his head as if to clear it, pulling away, and gives Yuuri’s door one final, anguished look.  Then he turns away and strides down the hall, into the darkness.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOOPS I FORGOT TO PUT MY AUTHOR'S NOTE ON HERE LOL
> 
> 1\. so sorry for the delay!!! i was travelling abroad after moving across the country, etc etc haha. actually i'm still not home and won't be for another week ish, so 12 might also be late? we'll see!!!!
> 
> 2\. GOODIES: alright i'm coming back now that my wifi is being nicer to me, here we go!!! so check out [THIS](http://adreamingsongbird.tumblr.com/post/161682095925/bluejiji25-so-this-is-fanart-for) awesome chapter 8 angry ice viktor, [this](http://adreamingsongbird.tumblr.com/post/161682039470/procrastinartists-this-was-inspired-by) beautiful?? gorgeous?? chapter 6ish viktor + bonus gay yuuri, [this](http://adreamingsongbird.tumblr.com/post/161681975545/imkasudone-adreamingsongbird-couldnt-get-this) incredibly amusing baby gamer yuuri based on some silly tumblr shenanigans, [this](http://adreamingsongbird.tumblr.com/post/161649115455/sorejaku-id-like-to-thank-adreamingsongbird) lovely rendition of the ending scene of chapter 11 someone did like as soon as the chap went up (i'm still in awe), [this](http://adreamingsongbird.tumblr.com/post/160780705850/wellbecause-this-is-like-super-late-but-i-had) very nice chapter 8 yuuri getting beaten up , [this](http://adreamingsongbird.tumblr.com/post/160780543360/tolbyccia-i-reread-my-favorite-chapter-of) BEAUTIFUL BEAUTIFUL BEAUTIFUL milasara, and [this](http://adreamingsongbird.tumblr.com/post/160528658920/peachie-o-oh-my-god-the-rules-for-lovers-by) delightful young viktor!!!!! wow!!!!! so many wonderful things this chapter, thank you all so much!!! as ever, if i've missed something, please please please let me know!!!! ♥
> 
> 3\. kudos to anyone who catches the high school musical reference in this chapter.
> 
> 4\. next chapter i will be upping the rating to M for dark themes!
> 
> 5\. as always, check out [my tumblr](adreamingsongbird.tumblr.com/tagged/trfl) for updates on the schedule and stuff. chapter 12 might also be late because i'm still travelling right now!!!
> 
> 6\. big shoutout and thanks to pari and fae for helping me with plot ideas and proofreading!! ♥ and also thanks to spamty for helping me bounce plot ideas too, i was going to mention this after the big thing she helped me with that's coming up later but i'll go ahead and say it now, hahaha!!! ♥
> 
> next time: and oh, my love, i never knew how dark it would be without your light


	12. when true hearts lie withered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri leaves Ruthenia, and Phichit stumbles upon something unsettling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some violence and dark themes (related to blood magic) this chapter.

Mari Katsuki is, to put things lightly, displeased.

“He can’t just break off the engagement just like that and expect us _not_ to interpret it as an insult,” she says, crossing her arms and glaring darkly at the press conference, still running on the television as news anchors analyze it.  “Like Yuuri is just… unnecessary.”  The word leaves a foul taste in her mouth.  Yuuri said this man loved him, and yet out of nowhere, with no warning, this happens? 

She can still hear the way Yuuri sobbed into the phone two nights ago, calling her just before dawn.  He sounded so lost, so empty, and so heartbroken.  Hah!  Some love!

Yesterday was spent in rapid renegotiations, negotiations that Mari had to excuse herself from on multiple occasions just to avoid letting her anger seep through her calm façade.  How _dare_ that man insult her country like this?  And how dare he—how _dare_ he rip out Yuuri’s heart?

“Yuuri deserves better than this,” she adds, fuming, as she crosses her arms tightly over her chest.

“Hey, you don’t have to tell me twice,” Lady Minako snorts.  Unlike Mari’s seething, red anger, her irritation is all clipped and dry, and caustic as hell.  “You’re preaching to the choir.”

“Next time I see that King Nikiforov, I’ll—”

Her mother gives her a sharp, quelling look from across the coffee table where she sits, hands folded primly in her lap.  “Next time you see him, I do hope you’ll act in a manner befitting the Crown Princess of Hinomoto, Mari,” she says.  “I understand your anger, but—”

“I _know_ what my duty is,” Mari huffs.  “That doesn’t mean I don’t want to punch him in the jaw.  I won’t do it, but let me _fantasize,_ at least.”

Hiroko lets out an undignified snort.  “Alright, dear.  Fantasize away,” she says, sighing.  “The trade agreements have to be renegotiated again.  King Nikiforov appears to want to keep as close to the original terms as we can, but many members of our court want to withdraw, feeling offended—”

“As they rightfully should!” Mari mutters.  _She_ feels offended.  Was Yuuri just not “good enough” for this man?  Hmph!  She wants to slap her past self for being so taken in by him, last time she went to Ruthenia.  He seemed like such a charming fellow, and so genuine with Yuuri.  So caring.  But apparently _not_ , if he just breaks his heart on a whim like this—ugh!  She’s so— _ugh!_

“Mari,” Hiroko says gently.  “Please try to be understanding.  I know it’s hard.  But he just lost his mother and had the kingship thrust upon him.  I won’t deny that part of me is very upset with him for hurting my son, but he’s hurting too, dear.”

It’s _true,_ and what’s more, the loss of his mother is the reason Nikiforov cited for not wanting to marry at the press conference that was televised this afternoon, but Mari is still having a hard time getting over waking up to Yuuri sobbing over the phone so hard that she could barely understand him.

“What he did to Yuuri is still wrong,” she says at length, pursing her lips.  “From what I understand, Yuuri was helping him with all that.  And then he just turned around and told him to pack his things and leave.  What the hell—I mean, who _does_ that?”

“Someone who’s grieving and doesn’t know how to handle it, maybe,” Hiroko says.  “When your grandmother passed away, I screamed at your father when he tried to console me, for quite a while.”

“But you apologized and worked it out with him,” Mari points out.  “Nikiforov is going through with this and being a massive dick.  Pardon my language.”

“I can’t argue with that,” Hiroko sighs.  “But try not to talk about him like this around Yuuri when he gets home, will you?  I don’t think he will want to hear it.”

Mari resists the urge to roll her eyes.  “Yes, Mom,” she says.  “I know that.”

When Yuuri gets home, she’s gonna ruffle his hair and take him to go sit out on the beach for a while.  He’ll probably cry—darling little Yuuri has always cried so easily—but he’ll feel better, after a little while.  And there’s always a place for him here, in his home court.  He’ll just pick up where he left off almost a year ago.

God.  Mari can’t _believe_ that man would throw a whole year away in just one conversation.  Grief is one hell of a trip, sure, but if Yuuri was _helping_ him through it…

Something just doesn’t add up here.  Either Yuuri was wrong about Nikiforov loving him, or there’s more to this story.  Mari isn’t sure which of these things she’s more inclined to believe, but she thinks she’s leaning toward the former.  Yuuri _has_ always been a romantic; he might’ve just been seeing what he so desperately wanted to be true.

She blows out a sigh.  “He can’t honestly expect to keep the alliance fully intact after this, can he?  Because if he does, he’s even stupider than he looks—”

 _“Mari,”_ her mother reproaches.

“I’m not saying this to his _face,”_ Mari protests. 

 Hiroko just sighs.

“No,” Minako says. “No, I don’t think he expects that either.  I think he’s trying to salvage whatever he can of it by putting on a show of wanting to stay our friends, but for whatever reason he wants Yuuri out of the equation.”

“He doesn’t deserve Yuuri,” Mari says primly.  “I guess he just figured that out.”

“Maybe,” Minako says, an odd, quiet note in her voice.  “But you know… love and happiness aren’t really much of something you can _deserve_ in a relationship.  He made Yuuri happy.  Is it fair to Yuuri to say Nikiforov didn’t deserve him, if Yuuri was happy there?”

 _No._ Of course not.  Mari closes her eyes and slumps back in her chair, sighing at the television as it keeps playing news in the background, a mindless hum.  Yuuri deserves happiness, that’s a fact, and Nikiforov _did_ make him happy, but…

The frustration makes her bury her face in her hands for a minute, raking them through her hair as she yanks her head back up.

“It’s not _fair!”_

She was going to call that stupid man her _brother-in-law!_ With the way Yuuri talked about him, it was like he was already family!  Honestly, she’s not just upset on Yuuri’s behalf—she’s hurt, on her own terms, too.  How could he just do this to them? 

“No,” Minako agrees quietly.  “It’s not.”

Yuuri will be home soon.  Tomorrow evening, to be precise.  Mari blows out a breath.

As angry as she is, there’s no point, and she knows it.  All of this is stupid bullshit and Yuuri deserves better—but that’s the angry big sister side of her speaking.  The Crown Princess is calmer, or at least is better at looking ahead and thinking about what needs to happen next.

What’s important, going forward, is that when Yuuri gets home, they take care of him, and then they continue to work towards Hinomoto’s national interests.  Anger has no place in a court.  It leads to rash, impulsive decisions.  Mari _knows_ that.

(She still wants to slap King Nikiforov across his stupid face, though.)

“Are we making katsudon tomorrow night?” she asks at length, looking over at her mother.

“Of course,” Hiroko says.  “Only the best for our favorite prince.  Right?”

“Right,” Mari agrees.

“Sanae and I are hauling him off for lunch the day after,” Minako says.  “She’s been wanting to see him for a while.  Says he doesn’t call enough.  And I agree.”

Mari snorts.  Sanae is Minako’s wife, and just as strong of a personality to boot.  “That’ll be good for him,” she says.  “Just don’t lecture him _too_ much about it.”

“Or else you’ll have an angry princess at your door to save her baby brother,” Hiroko adds, smiling warmly at Mari, who rolls her eyes.  “Right, dear?”

“I guess,” Mari says.  “I mean, if he needs saving, _someone’s_ gotta do it.”

Her mother and Minako both laugh, and Mari settles back into her cushions feeling a little bit mollified.  She’s still angry, but she feels… a little better about Yuuri.  He might have had his heart broken in Ruthenia, but here at home, he’ll be able to heal, and that makes her feel a little warmer inside.

* * *

 

Yuri Plisetsky is, to put things lightly, going to go kick his cousin’s ass all the way to fucking Jupiter and back with a steel-toed boot.

Lightly.

He barrels into the King’s study with all the bluster and privilege and anger that comes with being a Crown Prince who’s leaving for an extended visit to an allied nation in three days, chin held high and steps echoing, and shoves the doors open before him as dramatically as he can.

“What the _hell_ did you do?!”

Viktor looks up so mildly that Yuri wants to smack the pen out of his hand.  “Good afternoon, Yura,” is all he says.  Yuri slams the doors behind him with righteous fury and stomps up to the desk, slamming his hands down.

“I said, _what the hell did you do?”_

“I’m afraid I’m going to need you to be a little more specific than that,” Viktor says, as if it isn’t entirely obvious what Yuri is so upset about.

Yuri does smack the pen out of his hand.  “Don’t act like a moron!  I’m talking about _Katsudon!”_ he hisses.

Viktor settles back in his chair, his brows lowering slightly as his jaw tightens.  There’s a subtle shift in his face, one that tells Yuri he’s talking to the King now, not just his cousin, and in response, he straightens up, removing his hands from the desk.  The pen remains forgotten on the rug.

“Watch your tone, Prince Plisetsky,” Viktor warns coolly.  This is how he used to act almost a year ago!  This is how he would act, all cold and cut off and so reserved that Yuri would want to punch him on sight just to get some sort of reaction out of him, and god fucking dammit, he thought they were _done_ with this!

“Fine,” he bites out, just barely polite enough to avoid comment.  “Why did you break up with him?”

“That’s a personal question,” Viktor says, resting his chin on one hand.  “I would rather not discuss such affairs with you, if it’s all the same to you.”

It is most certainly _not_ all the same to Yuri.  “These affairs concern me,” he huffs, crossing his arms.  “As your heir, I need to have all the current intel, even if you don’t want to talk about you and your messy breakups.  Why did you do it?”

He’s _trying_ to remain impartial and calm, like a proper prince would, because if that’s the game Viktor wants to play here, Yuri is determined to beat him, but the trouble is that it’s really, really hard not to be angry thinking about how unnecessary and stupid this is.  Having Katsudon here is _good_ for Viktor.  Hell, it’s been good for everyone else, too!  Katsudon was good for all of them!  And now he’s sitting in his rooms staring listlessly at a wall and crying, probably.  That’s what he looked like he was about to do when Yuri left him.

“I… have my reasons, Yura,” Viktor says.  The steely-cold look has left his eyes, and now he just looks troubled.  Tired.  With a slight shock, Yuri realizes just how much like his mother he looks, sitting there behind that same desk, wearing that same crown.  It feels like someone just poured a bucket of icy water down his spine. 

He can’t help but wonder if Viktor sees her ghost whenever he looks in the mirror, too.

“Yeah?” he asks, perching on the edge of the desk.  Aunt Vasilisa would always reprimand him for doing that.  “Reasons like what?”

“I can’t tell you,” Viktor says immediately.  He sighs, raking a hand through his hair, but it runs into his crown, and he sighs again, weary, as he reaches up to adjust it back into place.

“You couldn’t tell Katsudon, either,” Yuri snorts.  “That’s ridiculous.  Who can you tell, then?”

“Nobody,” Viktor says.  He looks pained for a moment, swallowing hard, and Yuri feels the anger dissipating like the wind failing in a storm stranded far inland, away from the sea.  “I… nobody.  I wish…  Yura, could you tell Yuuri something for me?”

“Tell him yourself!  I’m not your goddamn courier,” Yuri balks immediately, but something in Viktor’s face stops him from rejecting him completely.  He huffs, swinging his leg back and forth.  “Fine.  What is it?  If it’s too soppy I’m making you do it yourself.”

Viktor flickers a wan smile at him.  “Just… tell him I’m sorry,” he says.  “I know he probably… he probably doesn’t want to see me again, now, but.  I’m sorry.”

Yuri frowns.  “You should tell him yourself,” he says.  “He deserves that much.”

“He deserves far more than that,” Viktor agrees.  He looks like he’s going to launch into another stupid sappy monologue about how wonderful Katsudon is, like he used to all the time, except … he doesn’t. 

 _Huh,_ Yuri realizes.  _Guess he’s never gonna text me like that again._

As much as he wants to pretend that that’s a relief, it really just leaves him feeling cold inside.

“Fine,” Yuri sighs, suddenly wanting the excuse to get out of this cold, sad study, full of ghosts and sorrows as it is.  Outside is sunlight and the promise of his escape from this place.  Ever since his aunt’s death, the palace has felt like a prison, full of pressure and eyes everywhere.  Yuri hates being Crown Prince.  “I’ll tell him.  But you should too.  It’ll be more genuine or whatever if you do it, asshole.”

“Thank you, Yura,” Viktor says.  He leans over in his chair, fingers scrabbling against the rug as he stretches for the pen, then sits back up with another melancholy sigh.  “I suppose I ought to get on with my work, if that’s all you needed.”

“You didn’t answer my questions or give me anything I came in here for,” Yuri points out, scowling at him again.  There’s no anger behind it this time, though.  This is just… what’s familiar.  Viktor is cold, and Yuri provides heat.  It’s their own endless cycle, going for years and years.  In some way, Yuri knows that Viktor is aware that his gestures of ire are actually communicating fondness.  Sort of.  Kind of.  In a way, mind you.

All in all, Viktor is just a constant in his life.  It’s jarring, seeing him like this again after how happy he looked just a few weeks ago, but at least this is a Viktor Yuri knows how to deal with.

“No,” Viktor hums softly, pen already scritch-scritching away at his papers again in a clear dismissal.  “I suppose I didn’t.”

Yuri closes the door much more quietly on his way out.

 

* * *

Sitting in his room, staring listlessly at the wall, Yuuri blows out a breath and closes his eyes.  He’s tired.  He’s tired of being sad, being confused, being upset, and crying.  All of it.  There’s a pesky headache behind his eyes, annoying and persistent, and it won’t leave him alone, and it’s probably from dehydration, but he can’t really help it when every little damn thing makes him sad again! 

He’s spent all day moping around and being sad after the morning’s press conference.  Now it’s _evening_ and he just wants to go to sleep, but also he doesn’t want to lie in bed alone, but also the thought of literally _everything_ makes him feel bad, so… what the hell is he supposed to do?

For example, maybe he could make tea to help himself feel better, except that just reminds him of how he’s never going to be able to finish getting through that tea set with Viktor, and _that_ reminds him of everything that happened with Viktor on the most painful night of his life, and…

…And he’s leaving.  Packing.  The tea set isn’t coming home with him, though.  He’s leaving it for Viktor, as… as something to remember him by.  After everything, Yuuri just… he just really hopes Viktor doesn’t forget about him.

He shakes his head to himself.  Something just feels… wrong.  That entire conversation, that night, it felt wrong, too, and not just because of how desperately he didn’t want it to be happening.  The heavy, nauseating terror of the _badwrongbad_ feeling is still there, hanging oppressively through the palace, and it has only gotten stronger since the Queen’s death, if anything. 

Which makes Yuuri not only sad but also very, very suspicious.  Especially since Viktor officially declared her death a tragic accident this morning in the same press conference where he made their separation official and known to the world.

Something just doesn’t add up.

 _I can’t tell you,_ Viktor’s voice, sad and lost and pleading _help me help me help me_ , whispers again in his memory.  Yuuri bites his lip.  Why couldn’t he?  Why did he feel so helpless and confused?  Of course everything about the past few weeks has been upsetting, but…

Deeply unsettled, Yuuri hesitates, wrapping his arms around himself and rocking back and forth on the bed for a moment.  He slept alone last night, for the first time in over a month.  It was colder than he remembered it being.  Quieter, too.

Oh, to hell with this.  He’s leaving soon enough.  He might as well just go _try_ , one last time.  _Do you trust me?_ Viktor asked, that night, that awful night, and Yuuri’s answer, heartwrenching as it feels to admit, has not changed.  _I do._

 _I still love him,_ he thinks to himself, weary and sad.  And the pain Viktor has felt every time they’ve been together now, well… Yuuri is pretty sure Viktor still loves him, too.  The more he thinks about this, today now that he’s past the initial shock and panic and turmoil, the less comfortable he feels!  Something is so clearly, obviously wrong.  Viktor _needs_ him.  Especially now with Georgi and Yuri leaving for a while— _why the hell is Yuuri leaving, too?_

That settles it, really.  He has to go talk to Viktor again.  Something has to be wrong.  He’s not just making this up to make himself feel better about being unwanted, about not being good enough after all.  That’s his anxiety talking, right?  Right.  Of course. 

(And if it isn’t, he’ll get confirmation, at least.)

Tugging his robes more tightly around himself to feel a little more secure, he bites his lip again, getting to his feet, slowly and shakily.  He has a king to talk to.

But first, he should probably wash his face.  In the bathroom.  The bathroom, which is incredibly sparse of all his belongings now that he’s packed all but the essentials for tonight.  He leaves tomorrow morning.  _Tomorrow morning._

“No,” he breathes, out loud to make the words that much more real.  “No more crying.  Stop thinking about it.  Just… just go.”

He shuffles sadly to the bathroom, splashes water on his face, and examines himself in the mirror.  He looks lost, sad, and a little bit dead-eyed.  It won’t do.  It might be night, but a prince should always look the part, if he’s not in private, and he’s about to go looking for a king.

He shakes his head to clear it and retouches his concealer to make sure no dark bags show under his eyes, then waits and practices smiling the airy, empty smile of court until he’s sure it looks convincing enough.  It just makes him feel empty inside, too.

One year.  One year of his life, gone down the drain, just like the water in his sink.  Viktor would—Viktor wouldn’t do this to him, not willingly, would he?  They were… they were _good_ together.  At least—at least Yuuri really, really thought they were.  He was trying his hardest to support Viktor, and he thought it was working, and sure, maybe he was neglecting himself in the process and that’s why he just broke down and didn’t think to ask more than “why?” that night, but… but they were good together, they were!  He’s sure of it.

Almost sure, anyway.

Well.  As sure as he ever gets of anything involving anyone’s opinion of him as a person.  There.  Accurate enough.

So.  Now.  There isn’t much time left to him here, so he should spend what he has wisely.  He’s going to go to the King’s suite, find Viktor, and quietly and calmly ask him what went wrong in their relationship.  It has to be something in their relationship, because to Yuuri’s knowledge, the political situation between Ruthenia and Hinomoto didn’t suddenly change with the coronation…

…unless that niggling little voice of doubt in the back of his mind is _right,_ and there’s something even more wrong than he feared here, but he has to admit he doesn’t really want to entertain that possibility.  It’s easier to assume the problem is just with himself.

Yes.  Yes, okay.  That’s the plan.  Go to Viktor, have a calm talk, understand, leave.  And hope that next time, if there is a next time, will go better.  He might get married off to someone else entirely, if the alliance completely falls apart, as it well may.  He doesn’t know if… he doesn’t know if he could fall in love with someone else the way he loved—loves—Viktor, but he could certainly strive for a functional, working relationship.

Blowing out a breath, Yuuri scrutinizes his reflection again for a few moments.  He looks… well, he looks disturbingly like himself, much more like himself than he feels.  Still, he supposes there’s some comfort to be taken from the familiar armor of set shoulders and a stern jaw, of sweeping through a room with elegant, regal steps and so much grace.  Even if he doesn’t feel like a prince, at least he still looks like one.  Maybe there is still some hope for him left.

There’s no more procrastinating.  He has to do this.  One last talk with his Vitya.

Oh god nope no no that won’t work he _cannot_ think of him as “his Vitya” without wanting to cry again, alright, note to self, _don’t do that,_ holy shit, no, bad plan, bad plan!

[21:25] yuuri:  
phichit when i get home you need to come visit and eat an entire tub of ice cream and watch bad romcoms with me

Composing the text makes him focus on something long enough to keep his eyes from watering and ruining his makeup again.  A deep breath, in and out, helps him stabilize himself again, and then before any sense of finality can kick in, he hurries from the bathroom.

Alright.  One last talk with—

One last talk with King Nikiforov.

Yuuri leaves his room, heads down the hallway he’s walked so many times, and turns left, hurrying up the stairs and then turning right at the fork in the passage.  His feet take him to the familiar door, but…

“His Majesty isn’t available,” one of the guards says.  Yuuri sighs, idly wondering whether it’s just his paranoia or if the guards feel like the general Petersburg Palace off-putting vibe, and turns.

“Why not?” he asks, raising one eyebrow delicately.  Viktor is in his chambers, he can tell, and it seems like someone’s in there with him.  The fact that it’s someone with an emotional shield up makes him suspicious—Ivanovich is one of the only people in the court who does that.  His shield seemed lackluster a while ago, but it’s tightened again, and Yuuri can’t help but wonder why. 

“He is indisposed,” the guard doesn’t really answer.  “Not receiving visitors at this time.”

“Of course,” Yuuri agrees dully.  Avoiding him, perhaps?  After the turmoil he felt in him the other night, it’s not surprising.  But Yuuri is done being angry at him and just wants answers.  Can’t they end this on a solid note, if not a good one?

“Good day, Your Highness,” the guard says.  Yuuri smiles his fake, airy smile, nods and walks away. 

Looks like he’ll just have to make use of Yuri’s rooms, then.  That passage connecting the Crown Prince’s rooms to the Royal Suite is still there.  Whatever’s going on with Viktor, Yuri doesn’t appear to know anything about it, if their conversation this morning is anything to go by, so hopefully, he’ll help Yuuri out in his quest for answers.

He knocks, one-two-three, and Yuri opens the door quickly, his lips pressed together in a thin line.  “Hi, Katsudon,” he says.  There’s none of his usual bite, not even the playful kind, in his voice.  He just sounds… defeated, tired, and sad.

“Hi, Yura,” Yuuri replies.  His own voice sounds much the same.

Yuri lets him in and locks the door again, then flops down on the couch, burying his face in a cushion.  His laptop is open next to him, and on its screen Yuuri sees Prince Altin.

“Good evening, Prince Altin,” he greets, as courteously as he can manage right now.

“Good evening, Prince Katsuki,” Prince Altin returns.  “Yura, should I call back at another time?”

“No,” Yuri says quickly.  Then he pauses, looking up at Yuuri.  “…Unless you needed something… I guess…”

“I’m just passing through,” Yuuri says.  “Don’t mind me.  A certain ‘currently indisposed’ king owes me some answers, I think.”

Yuri sits up.  “Are you gonna go yell at him?  Because I tried that earlier and it didn’t work.  He’s… being stubborn.  In a mood.  He told me to tell you he’s sorry.  I don’t know.  He’s… acting really weird.”  He runs a hand through his hair, blowing out a breath with puffed-out cheeks when it falls forward over his face again, and Yuuri has the odd urge to go over and hug him tightly.  For all his bravado, he’s just a boy, caught up in the middle of… all of this.

“I’m not going to yell at him,” he says instead, heading for the bookshelf where he knows the passage to the private courtyard and the Royal Suite lies.  “I just want to talk to him.  I know I’m missing something here, and I want him to tell me what.”

Yuri twists around, propping one arm up on the back of the couch to watch Yuuri curiously.  “What makes you say that?”

Yuuri hesitates, glancing at the laptop again, and Yuri huffs.

“I’ve been talking to him about this all day,” he says.  “He knows all my theories by now, at least.  Don’t worry, Katsudon.  Beka can keep a secret.”

“Well… alright,” Yuuri says, hiding his relief that at least Yuri has _someone_ here for him, albeit not … _here._   Even if it does mean he can’t speak as unguardedly as he’d like.  “I just… When he, ah.  When he broke up with me.  Um.  He was… really upset, and part of the reason I got so upset was that I could f—I mean, I knew that he… he didn’t want to do it?  But he was doing it anyway.  And that’s what I don’t get.  Why would he do something like that if he didn’t want…?”

He mentally congratulates himself for getting through all of that without letting his voice wobble, then shakes his head.

“Anyway, I, um.  I think he’s talking to someone right now, and—”

“In his suite?  Even though it’s late as hell?” Yuri interrupts, frowning.  “And it’s not one of us?  Georgi already left and Mila’s on the phone with Princess Crispino.  He never invites anyone he’s not personally close to back there.”

“Yeah, I know,” Yuuri says.  “It’s, um.  That’s.  That’s part of why I’m so confused right now.”

 _I have a feeling it’s Lord Ivanovich,_ he wants to say, but he can’t say that in front of Prince Altin without revealing that he’s an empath, and while Altin has Yuri’s vote of confidence, Yuuri is still leery of divulging that particular little tidbit unnecessarily. 

“So I want to go check on him,” he says lamely.  “Maybe I’ll be interrupting, but if he’s acting this weird, I… I don’t know.  I’d rather interrupt and be wrong than not be there if… something _is_ up.  You know?”

Yuri nods, slouching back down.  “Yeah, fine,” he says.  “You know where the passage is, right?”

Yuuri nods, more at ease now that they’re done skirting around his empathy.  “Yes.”

“Cool,” Yuri says.  He picks his laptop up again, settling it in front of him on a cushion. “I’ll, uh.  Be here.  If you need anything.  Or whatever.  Yeah.”

“I appreciate it, Yura,” Yuuri says, determinedly squashing down the rising melancholy that wants to make him cry again.  Oh, hell, he’s going to miss Yuri _so much—_ but no, no, no!  He can’t focus on that until _after_ he goes and talks to Viktor.  He’s on a mission here, dammit!

He’s only been down to the private courtyard with Viktor a handful of times, but he’s pretty sure he remembers the right sequence of “books” that trigger the switch in the back of the shelf.  Sure enough, he doesn’t embarrass himself in front of Yuri, and the hidden door opens with a _click._   Yuuri takes a deep breath to steel himself—there’s no turning back now—and then steps inside.

He uses his phone’s flashlight to guide himself down the dusty old steps, marvelling that it was only a month ago—just barely over a month—that he first walked these halls with Viktor’s hand warm in his, reassuring and gentle.  After that first time, Viktor confessed that he really, really liked sparring together, and not just because they wound up making out in the courtyard for several minutes afterwards, and they made it something they did more often, and…

Yuuri stops, shaking his head and blinking back sudden tears, again.  That time is over.  He needs to figure out why, that’s all.  That’s _all._   He’s not here as a sad ex-boyfriend trying to mope around, he’s… he’s here as the Second Prince of Hinomoto and he wants to know specific information for diplomatic reasons as well as personal ones.  He has to remember that.

_This isn’t about you.  This is about the alliance._

He tells himself that, but it’s a lie.  This isn’t about the alliance.  This is about Viktor.

He starts to walk again, slowly, eyes fixed on the stone beneath his feet but mind far, far away, back in the silken sheets when he’d fall asleep snuggled cozily in Viktor’s arms, playing with his soft, soft hair and pressing sleepy little kisses to his collarbone.  Or in the armchair where they’d sit, tangled up with foreheads pressed together and whispering gentle words of love.

 _I’d be lost without you,_ Viktor whispered to him once, late, late at night, when they both ought to have been asleep.  _I think you saved me.  You’ve been saving me, this entire time._

Yuuri smiled, back then.  Touched his cheek.  _I’ll keep it up,_ he promised.  _Just call me your map, Vitya._

 _My hero, maybe,_ Viktor replied, closing his eyes and leaning into his touch.  Yuuri, then, thought he was beautiful and sad, thought in his naivety that he could keep saving him.  Thought that this could last forever.  Thought that they would be forever.

Now?

He wants to laugh at himself.  What blind hope.  He should’ve known it wouldn’t last. 

It’s not _fair._ They were good together!  Viktor—Viktor made him so damned happy.  This hurts.  This _hurts._ It’s agonizing and if he dwells on it his chest twinges and he can hardly _breathe_ from how bad it hurts, and he just has to suck it up and be a good little prince—

“Stop,” he tells himself quietly, sternly, despairingly.  “There’s no point.”

He keeps walking.

The passage leading away from the courtyard and up to the Royal Suite lets out into Viktor’s sitting room, which is empty when Yuuri peers through the carefully placed slit in the painting that the passageway hides behind.  He can still feel Viktor’s presence nearby, though, as well as the masked _nothing_ that must be Ivanovich, so they must be in the King’s private study, in the room leading off from the sitting room.

Well, alright then.  He peeks around again to ascertain that the room is empty, then presses the latch to open the secret door and slips out.  Now comes the uncertainty—maybe he should’ve waited until Ivanovich left?  That way he could get Viktor alone and _talk_ to him—

—but then again, Yuri is right.  This is incredibly suspicious behavior on Viktor’s part, and Yuuri doesn’t even trust Ivanovich as far as he can throw him.  The part of him that knows he’s still hopelessly in love with Viktor despite the pain and everything else itches to protect him, and the thought of leaving a Viktor who he _knows_ is horribly vulnerable alone with the head of opposition in Ruthenia’s court, honorable as he may act, makes Yuuri’s skin crawl.  And on top of that, Viktor seems upset.  Confused, angry, and upset.

 _Think, Katsuki,_ he tells himself, standing frozen in the middle of the sitting room.  _Viktor said he did this to protect you.  You should’ve questioned that sooner.  Why would he need to protect you from himself…?_

A good prince would go back to the passageway and wait until he has privacy to pursue the conversation he’s waiting for.  A good prince wouldn’t infringe upon the rights of others in his court to have private conversations.  A good prince would _not_ eavesdrop, no matter how curious and desperate he gets.

…

Oh, to _hell_ with being a good prince. 

He tiptoes cautiously across the plush rug, inching closer to the study door, until he can hear what’s being said inside.

“You can’t do that,” Viktor is saying, his voice low and angry.  It’s not quite the cold, untouchable rage he’s displayed in the past.  This anger feels more like Yuuri’s own, when he gets angry—it’s hot and it’s volatile and it’s hurting.  It’s a vulnerability.  What’s _happened,_ that Viktor talks to Ivanovich like this?  “I won’t let you.”

“Your Royal Majesty,” Ivanovich says drily.  His mind is still an uneasy blank in Yuuri’s perception, filling him with trepidation.  _Why_ does Ivanovich keep that shield up, and why has he been doing it so well recently?  “With all due respect, I can, and you can rage about it all you want, but understand, I am doing what is best for Ruthenia—”

“Like hell you are!” Viktor snarls, and there’s a thud, as if he just slammed a cup down onto his desk.  Yuuri flinches reflexively.  “You call what you did to—”

Confusion slams into Viktor like a freight train, or a tsunami, wiping everything clean from his mind and washing it into a turbulent sea.  He’s left grasping for driftwood, strains of thought swirling this way and that, and Yuuri, frozen outside the door with wide, wide eyes is left _reeling_. 

This—this happened to Viktor the night they broke up, but in his distress, he didn’t recognize it for what it was.  But now he sees it and feels it and knows it, and he cannot breathe.

A philological chokehold.  A stranglespell, as Minako-sensei called them. 

_Oh my god._

His breath starts to come faster, shorter, and he can feel himself shaking, knees weak.  He needs to sit down.  He— _a stranglespell, on Viktor, how long has it been there, oh god_ —can’t breathe properly. 

“No matter how loudly you yell, Your Majesty, a spell is a spell,” Ivanovich says, perfectly calm.  “You can be as unhappy as you like.  I don’t care.  I’m not happy either.  Or have you forgotten the reason I’m here to talk to you?”

“Prince Katsuki is going home,” Viktor hisses, his voice raw and angry and hurt, and Yuuri’s heart twinges painfully in his chest.  “He’s going home, and you won’t fucking _touch him.”_

“Such foul language, Your Majesty,” Ivanovich observes.  His voice hardens.  “I warned you not to try and get in my way, Viktor.  I told you that I was willing to work with you on certain things.  That you could keep your title and your palace, so long as we do what is best for _Ruthenia._   You let your emotions cloud your judgment.  Think objectively, if you will, of what you just lost for us.  You and all your hardheaded spontaneous thinking… do you even realize what an opportunity we had?”

“An opportunity,” Viktor bites out.  “Accusing an innocent man of murder is not what I would call an _opportunity, Alexei.”_

An innocent…

Yuuri’s head starts to spin.  Or rather—it continues to spin, speeding up on the way.  _Stranglespell.  Innocent.  Promised to protect me—oh god, oh god, oh_ god, _Vitya, what have you_ done—

“Ever the idealist,” Ivanovich mutters, so low that Yuuri barely hears.  “Just like your mother.”

Viktor’s anguish and rage spike again.  “ _Do not talk about my mother, you monster!”_

Ivanovich snorts humorlessly.  “I wonder, Your Majesty, what would you do if I tweaked the spell so that you couldn’t insult me, either—”

He pauses. 

“I think we have a surprise visitor,” he says, sounding dangerously displeased.

Yuuri, struggling to control his breathing outside the door, freezes.  Panic jolts up his legs and sends him stumbling backwards, terrified that he’s been caught, and sure enough he hears Ivanovich say something else as he collapses in an armchair and pretends to have been reading the news on his phone, frantically searching his pockets for the earbuds that must still be in his chambers somewhere.  _Fuck._

A chair scrapes in the study.  Yuuri stares at Mari’s name on his screen, typing a message composed of random words in the hope that he’ll look occupied when the door opens.  Fuck, fuck, fuck, he shouldn’t have eavesdropped, oh, god, oh god oh god, he’s going to be caught and he’ll die on the spot—

The door opens.

“Ah,” Lord Ivanovich says, standing framed in the office doorway.  Behind him, Yuuri sees Viktor, his eyes widening in surprise.  “I wasn’t aware we were keeping you waiting, Prince Katsuki.”

“I—I just wanted to talk to the King,” Yuuri says, cursing his voice for faltering for a moment.  That’s a sign of weakness!  A sign that he’s upset!  Shit!  He can’t show his panic, he can’t show it, he _has_ to keep it inside!  He can’t let Ivanovich know that he heard anything!  “I can wait.  Please don’t hurry on my account.”

Ivanovich’s eyes narrow, and even though he can’t get a read from the man’s soulless empathic emptiness, Yuuri has a horrible understanding of _why_ now. 

Ivanovich is a philologist.  _Ivanovich put a stranglespell on Viktor._

Logically, Yuuri knows that even though he hasn’t the faintest idea of how to cast, manipulate, or lift stranglespells on his own and that they are very complex and that he would need to do a lot of work and research to be able to help Viktor, his own mental blocks will keep him safe from having a stranglespell put on him. 

Logic is flimsy protection against anxiety, and he’s terrified anyway.

“Hmm… no, no.  I think I’m done here, anyway,” Ivanovich says, smiling thinly as he turns away.  It doesn’t reach his eyes.  “But thank you for your courtesy, Your Highness.  It suits you.  I wish you all the best for your trip back to Hinomoto tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Yuuri says, and he keeps his eyes on the man’s back until he’s gone.  The door closes with a loud _thud_ behind him.

Silence reigns.  For the first time in … in a long time, sitting alone with Viktor feels awkward.

Except it doesn’t, and Yuuri is just still trying to pretend he’s not shaking when he’s _terrified._

_A stranglespell.  Viktor is under a stranglespell._

Okay.  Okay, he’s… he’s panicking.  Yeah, wow, um, this is… this is pretty close to a panic attack, isn’t it?  Wow, yeah!  It sure is!  That’s… great…

Fuck.

_Fuck._

“…Yuuri?”

Vitya. _[Vitya](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TfJ6wGKRtVs)._

In retrospect, Yuuri supposes it really shouldn’t be much of a surprise when he just bursts into tears at the sound of Viktor’s voice, tentative and concerned from behind his desk, like he’s not sure if Yuuri even wants him at all.  And Yuuri can’t even blame him, given how cold he’s been acting since they—since they broke up—oh, _god,_ Vitya!

“Yuuri!” Viktor exclaims, dismayed, and there’s the sound of a chair sliding against carpet and then he’s hurrying out of his study, concern written all over his face as if he’s not the one struggling, the one who needs help, the one who… the one who…

Yuuri just looks at him, helpless and crying, and feels his heart break all over again.

Viktor drops to one knee in front of Yuuri’s armchair, hands fluttering as if they want to reach for him but then drawing back.  “Yuuri, oh, darli—Yuuri.  Yuuri.  What’s wrong?  What is it?”

Yuuri flings his arms around Viktor’s neck and buries his face in his shoulder.  “I—I’m going to m-miss you _so much,”_ he wails, voice breaking horribly.  None of the questions he came here to ask matter anymore.  He has answers, answers he didn’t mean to get like this but answers that he got anyway, and he’s terrified and he’s panicking again and—

Viktor’s arms fold around him, and it’s just like it always is.  His hugs are strong and comforting and warm, and he still feels like home.  Yuuri starts to cry harder as Viktor buries his face in his hair, holding him tightly.

“I’m going to miss you, too,” he whispers.  “I really… oh, Yuuri.  I’m so sorry.  I’m so sorry for all of this.”

“I d-don’t want to leave you,” Yuuri sobs.  “I don’t—I don’t want to.  I l-love you, Vitya, I’m so, I’m so _sorry_ for pushing you away—”

Viktor chuckles, but it’s humorless and sad and lonely.  Yuuri holds him tighter.

“Well,” he says drily.  “I started it, so I don’t think I can really blame you there.  I would understand if you hated me for this.”

“I _don’t!”_  Yuuri shakes his head frantically, his desperate fingers twining in Viktor’s hair as he whines, pulling him closer.  “I don’t, I love y-you, I still love you, I’m not—I’m not angry I just—I—I want to stay with you, I don’t w-want to go!  I can’t leave you alone!  Not—not like this!”

“Oh, _Yuuri,”_ Viktor breathes softly.  He starts rubbing his back, gentle soothing circles pressed between his shoulderblades, and Yuuri squeezes his eyes shut, hot tears leaking out against Viktor’s skin.  “Yuuri, sweetheart.  Don’t worry about me.  I’ll be fine, I promise.  You’re going home, that’s a good thing, right?  You’ll be with your family again.  It’s not all bad.  You don’t need me.”

“Maybe not,” Yuuri sniffles, “but I _want_ you.  I want you, _I want you,_ you’re so—and of course I’m going to worry about you, you idiot, you—how can I _not?_   I don’t want to leave you alone.  You need—someone has to take care of you when you won’t take care of yourself!”

Viktor’s arms tighten around him, pressing him close enough that it almost feels like he’s never going to let go.  Yuuri clutches desperately at his shirt.

“I love you so much,” Viktor whispers fiercely.  “I love you so, so much, Katsuki Yuuri.  Whatever happens tomorrow and every day after that, just—please, please never doubt that.”

Yuuri shudders in his arms, gasping for breath as another sob threatens to claw its way up his throat.  The anxiety is receding, the stranglespell all but forgotten as regular, old-fashioned sadness descends upon him in a wave, making his heart stutter and making his thoughts falter.  “I’ll miss you,” he cries. “I don’t want to go.”

“I’ll miss you, too, darling,” Viktor whispers, and his voice breaks on the _darling_ and then Yuuri lifts his head to see that he, too, is about to cry, tears shining in his beautiful ice-blue eyes.  Yuuri clutches him closer, helplessly trapped somewhere between desperation and denial.  “Oh, my love, my heart, my sunshine,” he breathes, cupping Yuuri’s cheek in one hand as the first tear slides down his cheek.  “Thank you.  Thank you.”

“For _what?”_ Yuuri asks, shaking his head.  He closes his eyes, laying his hand over Viktor’s, and just shakes his head again.  He’s been so unfair, stewing and wallowing in his own despair all day when he could have spent it with Viktor, knowing that if tomorrow morning must come at least they could’ve had today together.  His world has been shaken, rocked to its core, and he feels _so horrible_ for all his cold looks and chilly words.  Vitya, Vitya, his poor Vitya, all alone, just trying to—to save _an innocent_.  To save him.  Again.

“For letting me say a proper goodbye,” Viktor answers, and Yuuri opens his eyes again to see that Viktor’s are closed.  He trembles in Yuuri’s arms, trying not to break down himself, and Yuuri sends him a burst of _lovelovelove,_ desperately wanting to chase the sadness away.  Viktor opens his eyes again.  “For—for giving me another chance.  For not hating me for this.”

Yuuri squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head.  “I love you,” he repeats, forlorn and sad.  “Vitya, I love you, I could never hate you, I…”

He takes a deep breath, withdrawing slightly.  They—they need to talk about this.  They can’t just—the tears can wait, they don’t have _time_.

Viktor bows his head.  “I’m sorry,” he starts to say, again, but Yuuri cuts him off with a frantic shake of his head.

“Vitya,” he interjects.  “ _Vitya._ Wait.  We—we should talk.  I… I came in here because I wanted to talk to you, but… I.  Um.  I overheard.”

Viktor’s head snaps up again, his eyes wide with shock.  Yuuri tenderly brushes the hair away from his face and cups his cheek.

“You overheard…?” he breathes.  “How much?  How much do you know?  _Yuuri._ Oh, god, and he caught you—it’s good you’re getting out of here tomorrow morning—”

“Good?” Yuuri interrupts incredulously.  “ _Good?_ When I’m leaving you here _alone,_ like this?  How the hell is that good?”

“Because,” Viktor answers tightly, “I don’t think I could live with myself if you—if he—oh, _fuck this,”_ he exclaims, frustrated, and Yuuri can feel the wave of confusion drowning him again.  It’s okay, though.  He knows.  He knows what Viktor was going to say.

_I don’t think I could live with myself if he killed you, too._

Ice runs down his spine.

“I don’t want to leave you here all alone,” Yuuri whispers.  “You’re under a spell.  I can feel it, now that I’m looking for it.  I don’t—I don’t know how to lift it, but with time I could figure it out, I _know_ I could—”

“We don’t have time, Yuuri,” Viktor says flatly.  His fingers twitch against Yuuri’s back.  “The longer you stay here, the more danger you’re in.”

“He’s a _philologian,”_ Yuuri hisses.  “Someone needs to be with you, if he’s got you under a spell, and you’re already sending everyone else away!  Georgi’s gone, Yura’s leaving, _I’m_ leaving, and Mila’s—let me guess, you’re going to find a way to get her out of here too, right?  Who do you have left?  Duchess Baranovskaya doesn’t _know_ you—”

“I’m getting her and Duke Feltsman sent away for a while,” Viktor interrupts, an odd note in his voice.  “You know why.”

Yuuri pauses.  Implication is just outside of the things a stranglespell can choke off.  Viktor is trying to tell him something without actually saying it.  And why is he sending everyone away?

“They were threatened, too,” he surmises, eyes widening.  “Vitya, you stupid, selfless, lovable _idiot_ , you can’t just deal with this by sending away everyone who supports you.”

“As king, it’s my duty to keep you all safe,” Viktor manages, as firm and resolute as he can be while leaning into the caresses Yuuri is stroking into his cheek.  “Don’t—don’t worry about me, Yuuri.  I’ll be fine so long as I know you’re alright.”

“I want _you_ to be alright, too,” Yuuri mutters, pulling him closer again.  “What are we going to do?”

“It’s too late to ask that, I’m afraid,” Viktor sighs, weary and sad and vulnerable enough that a poignant ache forms in Yuuri’s chest.  “There’s no _we_ anymore, dear.  I don’t want you to worry, though.  Okay?  Don’t worry about me.  Just… let me go.”

“You _idiot,”_ Yuuri hisses again, clutching at him.  “I can’t just—just let you go, as if you don’t matter or something.  I’m not giving up on you!”

“You should,” Viktor says.  He sounds defeated already.  “It’ll be better for you.”

“You said maybe we would be together again, someday,” Yuuri argues, shaking his head.  “Or are you giving up on me?”

“I’m—”

Viktor cuts himself off.  He shakes his head.

“You deserve better than this,” he says softly.  “I’m captain of a sinking ship.  I go down with the Nikiforovs, knowing I’ve ruined everything my mother spent her life fighting for.  But you… you can get out of here.  You don’t have to get dragged down with me.  I want that for you.  Let me go, leave me behind, and live your life.”

“I—you should have—how _long_ has this been going on?  _What_ has been going on, anyway?” Yuuri asks, frustrated.  He’s trying to put together a puzzle without being able to see all the pieces.

“I can’t tell you, remember?” Viktor says flatly.  “I can’t tell you anything.  I’m sorry.”

Silence falls for a moment.  Then Yuuri lets out a breath.  He feels painfully helpless.  Viktor has just—just locked him out, preemptively, and it’s _frustrating_ beyond belief to know that he won’t even accept help when it’s offered, out of some misguided sense of nobility, but… what’s done is done.  He’s right.  There is no more _we._   Yuuri is leaving in less than twelve hours.

Melancholy overwhelms him again.  He’s _leaving._ It’s over before it even started.  This stupid selfless idiot of a man in front of him is going to be all alone, and the bigger tragedy is that he thinks that’s the best solution to this.

“Oh, _Vitya,”_ Yuuri sighs, closing his eyes and stroking his cheek again.  “Vitya…”

“I’m _sorry,”_ Viktor says again, a slight edge of desperation entering his voice.  “I just—I _can’t_ see you get hurt for this, Yuuri, not again, especially not after my mother—”

His breath hitches, and Yuuri can feel the confusion start to come over him, meaning something about Viktor’s mother’s death triggers the stranglespell.  Foul play, then.  Of course.  His heart hurts for Viktor, carrying all this on his own and so adamantly refusing help out of the fear of being unable to protect everyone.  He still remembers the guilt-ridden sorrow in Viktor’s eyes during those days when he was recovering from the assassination attempt.  That guilt is insidious, eating him up from the inside.

“I’m not angry anymore,” Yuuri whispers.  “I just really, really don’t want to leave you alone.”

“Yuuri,” Viktor breathes.  “Yuuri…”

He doesn’t know which of them leans in first, who really finds who, but then Viktor’s lips are pressed against his and he can taste his own salty tears, and it has to be a quick kiss because he still feels all congested and sniffly from crying but it is a kiss nonetheless.  Yuuri whines when Viktor pulls away.

“I’m sorry,” he says, again.  “I’m sorry, Yuuri.”

“Kiss me some more,” Yuuri breathes, pulling him closer.  “Please.”

Viktor does, kissing him with almost frightening intensity, full of desperation and sorrow and love nonetheless.  Yuuri kisses him back as sweetly as he can, given the circumstances, and never ever wants to let go.  Viktor’s arms tighten around him and Yuuri slides a hand up into that soft silky hair, pressing Viktor’s head closer, soaking him up like sunlight.

“Yuuri,” Viktor whispers a minute or maybe an hour later, when Yuuri has lost count of how many times he’s kissed him but knows that he still wants to stay, wants to whisper _I love you_ into Viktor’s lips forever.  “Stay with me tonight?”

Yuuri kisses him again.  “Yes,” he answers, breathy and soft.  “Yes.”

Later, he lies in Viktor’s silken bed with Viktor’s silvery head tucked into his neck.  It feels oddly normal, just like any other night, before everything went wrong, and Yuuri can’t decide whether that’s a blessing or a curse.  Viktor’s soft breaths and slow heartbeat are lulling him into slumber, but he’s reluctant to fall asleep. 

If he falls asleep, he’ll wake up and it’ll be morning.  In the morning, he has to leave.

In the darkness, with the familiar, gentle weight of Viktor’s arm draped over him and their legs tangled together, Yuuri closes his eyes and silently begs the sun not to rise.

(It rises anyway.)

* * *

Has Mila ever mentioned how much she appreciates her girlfriend?

Because she really, really, _really_ appreciates her girlfriend.  She’s sweet, caring, compassionate, and a wonderful listener, and she always knows how to cheer her up when she’s stressed, and she also always lets her talk things out when she’s upset.

“So yeah,” she’s saying, lying on her stomach on her bed in front of her laptop, propped up on her elbows.  “That’s what’s—that’s what’s been going on over here, I guess.  I just… I really want—I want—”

She breaks off and shakes her head.  She doesn’t know what she wants.

“Oh, honey,” Sara coos, her pretty face all drawn with concern as Mila frustratedly wipes at her eyes, looking away from the screen for a moment to compose herself. “Oh, my poor Mila…”

“I just—I miss you,” Mila admits, blowing out a frustrated breath. “I feel so—I don’t know, there’s just so much of _everything_ here and I just—I want to get away for a while, but I don’t want to leave the King when he’s so vulnerable, and now Yuuri’s leaving too, and I—ugh!”

Sara purses her lips.  Mila wants to kiss her so bad it feels like a physical ache in her chest—she misses Sara’s warmth, misses the familiarity and comfort of her fingers intertwined with hers, and desperately craves the coziness of curling up against her to watch a movie, feeling so secure.  She really, _really_ wants to go bury her face in Sara’s shoulder for a while and just… cry it out.

But she also feels like she has to stay here and be strong.  Viktor’s list of allies in court is growing … thin.  His list of personal friends is all but nonexistent.  She’s the only one who hasn’t found some kind of reason to leave.

 _Why_ is he breaking up with Yuuri now?  He _needs_ Yuuri, they can all see it!  Yuuri was so good for him!  The grief excuse doesn’t make _sense_.  Not to her, anyway.  She knows him better than that.  And that tidbit she overheard a while ago… about wanting to keep Viktor off the throne?  Obviously, it never came to fruition, but it still makes her uneasy.

“You could… come over, just for a little while,” Sara suggests softly.  “If you think you can afford to get away from court.  I would be really, really happy to see you, at least.”

Mila hesitates, biting her lip, and bows her head, blowing out a breath.  “I… don’t know,” she says, just as soft.  “I really, really, really want to, but I don’t know if I should.”

“Well, if you can’t pick, I’ll decide for you!” Sara says, smiling with resolute cheer.  “You should!”

Mila feels a smile tug at her own lips.  “Pardon me, but am I correct in thinking you might be a little biased on the decision here?”

Sara blinks as innocently as she can, and Mila can’t help but giggle despite her distress.  “Who, me?”

“Yes, you!” Mila chuckles.  “ _God,_ I wanna kiss you right now.”

Sara flushes a very adorable pink just like she does every time Mila declares her affection without any warning.  Then she winks.  “Well, if you listen to me and come over here, you _can_ …”

Mila groans, burying her face in her arms arms and letting her hair fall all around.  “ _Ugh,_ I’m so tempted, babe, I can’t even explain…”

“What exactly is holding you back?” Sara asks, tilting her head to one side.  Her hair, rippling like dark silk, falls across her face, and she huffs adorably as she tucks it behind her ear.  Mila wants bury her face in that hair for a while, like she does when Sara’s all cuddled up in her arms.  It’s been too long since she’s had the chance to do that.

“I don’t want to leave Viktor alone right now,” she sighs.  “He’s going through a lot.  I’m worried about him—we all are—but he keeps pushing us away.  I don’t—I don’t know what to _do,_ Sara, it’s like… I don’t know, he’s just shutting down emotionally?  He seems fine in court but he’s been keeping to himself so much more lately.  And now he’s sending Yuuri away, too.  It just—it seems so _weird_ and I’m worried.”

“Hm,” Sara hums, tapping her chin thoughtfully.  “You know… he’s the one who mentioned to me that you seem stressed.  He said _he_ was worried about _you._ I mean, he didn’t tell me to invite you over or anything, that was my idea, but maybe you’re both just fretting about each other and bad at talking about it?”

“Might be that, yeah,” Mila sighs, flopping down onto her arms again.  “I’m tired.”

“Emotionally?” Sara asks.

Mila just nods wearily.  “Yeah.  There’s too much drama over here.  I just wanna run away for a bit even though I feel like I shouldn’t.”

“Mila…”  Sara sighs.  “Sweetie, I’m gonna tell you something, and I don’t know if you’ll like hearing it, but I feel like I have to tell you anyway.  You _can’t_ expect yourself to be Viktor’s only support at a time like this, okay?  Especially because you’re feeling drained yourself!  If you’re so busy supporting him, who’s supporting you?  It’s not healthy! 

“I know you’re my beautiful, selfless, amazing babe, but listen to me.  You need to rest.  And I’m not just saying this because I’m biased and I want you here.  I just think you need a break from court.  You need to get away for a while, and go back feeling refreshed.  You’ll probably be way better at supporting him if you do that!  Even if it’s just a few days!  He can survive without you for a week!  So please, please take care of yourself too, and if you won’t quite do that, then get over here so I can do it for you.  Okay?”

Mila bites her lip, then quirks a little smile at the camera.  “Well,” she says.  “After a request like that, how can I possibly refuse?”

“You can’t,” Sara answers promptly, grinning.  Then she sobers again.  “But really.  Please?  Take some time for yourself?  If you’re sad and hurting and tired all the time it won’t help anyone, and he’s worried about you just as you are about him.  Please?  Pretty please, with a cherry on top?”

“Oh, no, I can’t resist a cherry,” Mila laughs.  She sighs, feeling more content than she has in days.  “How is it you always make me feel better?”

Sara laughs merrily.  “I have my ways,” she says.  Then she clasps her hands excitedly.  “So!  You’re coming over?  Right?  How about… is in three days too soon?  That’s probably too soon.  Next week?”

Mila purses her lips.  It _is_ really soon, and very sudden, but, uh… Sara’s kind of _right,_ she does need a break from court.  Yes, she feels really bad for Viktor, but she has to admit at least part of this mess is of his own making—breaking up with Yuuri right after becoming king?  Okay… sure, Your Majesty—and she _does_ want some time off.

And making that decision definitely makes her feel way, way more confident.

“Babe,” she says.  “To hell with ‘too soon’.  I’ll see you in three days.”

Sara lets out the most adorable, excited squeal Mila has ever heard in her entire life, jumping up and down in place.  “ _Yes!”_ she crows.  “Okay, okay!  I have to go tell Mickey.  It’s not an official state visit, okay?  So, um, no entourages!  Just us.  Courtship should cover it.  Yeah.  Okay.  I’ll go make arrangements!  Should—wait,” and she stops her frantic bouncing abruptly, freezing and going back to solemn concern.  “Wait.  Are you okay?  I can stay.  I can text Mickey and stay here with you if you need.  Or if you want.”

Mila opens her mouth to say _I’m fine, I’ll just start packing,_ but Sara plows on.

“Actually, you were about to _cry_ a minute ago.  What am I _thinking,_ about to leave?  No, no.  I’ll text Mickey and stay right here!  Do you wanna keep talking?  Or we could watch a movie.  It’s all up to you, cutie!”

“You’re so _cute,”_ Mila sighs, unable to stop grinning.  “I’m okay now, really.  I feel happier.  Still stressed, I mean, but, um… better.  And excited for three days from now.”

“Good!” Sara chirps, beaming.  “What else?”

“Um… thinking about how much I need to pack and stuff?” Mila sighs.  “I’m staying for a week, right?”

“Unless you want to stay longer, which I would never be opposed to,” Sara answers, winking again.  Mila waves a hand at her.

“I have _stuff_ that needs doing, you know,” she says wryly.  “Something about representing my family in court?  Speaking of which, if I’m leaving the country I should tell them…”

“Yes, probably, you should,” Sara giggles.  She’s bouncing in place again, full of excitement now.  One of Mila’s favorite things about her is how much her emotions just write themselves in every line of her body when she isn’t trying to hide them.  With people she’s comfortable around, she cries easily, laughs loudly, and lives life so brightly.  It’s beautiful.

“Hey,” Mila says, smiling at her through her hair.  “Thank you for talking sense into me.”

Sara smiles back, radiant.  “Anytime, sweetie,” she says warmly.  “You know that’s what I’m here for.  And I mean, if talking sense into you means I get to _see_ you, and hug you and kiss you too, well!  I’m even _more_ here for it.”

Mila laughs again.  She’s still… _ugh_ about court life in general right now, but at least having this one good thing solidified in her future plans makes things lighter, easier to bear, and the weight of everything isn’t so heavy that laughing is hard anymore.  “So transparent, babe.”

“Oh, well, you know me,” Sara says airily.  “I’m here for transparency and clarity, not cover-ups and conspiracies.”

“Of course you are,” Mila agrees, a wry smile tugging at her lips.  “But, yeah.  I need to pack, and let people know I’m going, and… ugh… do stuff.  Things.  I’m gonna deal with literally all of that… later.  Not now.”

“Why don’t you take a nap, silly?” Sara asks.  “Or just call it an early night.  It’s evening; you can go to sleep early, then wake up to see Prince Katsuki off, and then pack and do responsible things like the lovely and capable lady you are?”

“That… is very tempting,” Mila hums.  “You know what?  I think I will.  Sleeping sounds good.”

“You should do that, then!” Sara says.  “And so should I.”

“Mm,” Mila agrees.  “…But in a minute.  I have to muster the energy to get up and change into pajamas.  It takes preparation to do that, you know.”

“Oh, right, of course,” Sara laughs that merry, tinkling laugh again.  “Take your time, sweetie, I’m definitely not in a rush to get rid of you.”

Mila hums.  “Yeah.”

She sighs again, and silence comfortably drapes itself over their conversation like a contented cat.  It’s not awkward.  Sometimes she and Sara call each other just to sit while reading books on opposite ends of the line.  It’s just… nice.  Like existing in the same space, almost.

“Sara?”

“Yeah?”

“I… don’t want to sleep yet because when it’s morning, Yuuri’s leaving, and that’s going to be sad and I don’t want to deal with it actually happening for real.  This is all just… so fast, you know?”

Sara looks all concerned and sad again.  “Yeah… I’m sorry, honey,” she says.  “I wish I could hug you.  I know that’s gotta be rough, your friend leaving right after the Queen and everything…”

Mila nods against her arms, melancholy again.  Thinking of going to see Sara does cheer her up, but thinking of tomorrow morning absolutely does not.

“It’ll be okay,” Sara offers, tentative and soft, and Mila looks up at the camera plaintively.

“Tell me that again?”

“It’ll be okay,” Sara says, more confident this time, and Mila almost believes her.

“Thank you,” she mumbles.  “Might need that a few more times.”

“I’ll say it however often you need,” Sara promises.  “Think you’re ready to sleep yet, or not?”

Mila hesitates.  She’s tired, yes, but…  “Can you stay with me until I fall asleep?” she asks, staring fixedly at the corner of the screen so that she doesn’t quite have to make eye contact (or camera contact) while waiting for an answer.

Not that she has long to wait.  “Of course!” Sara says, as if the alternative would have made no sense.  “Go get changed, I’ll be right here waiting!”

Mila finds the energy to tease from _some_ reserve somewhere deep in herself, and quirks an eyebrow.  “Sure you don’t wanna watch?”

 _“Mila!”_   Sara squeaks, going pink again, and then sticks her tongue out.  “What if I said yes, then what?”

Mila yips, burying her face in her hands. “Hey, you can’t turn that around on me!  I was teasing _you!”_

“Don’t dish it out if you can’t take it, then!” Sara shoots back, and even with her face hidden, Mila can hear the laughter in her voice.

“I’m going now,” she announces, scooting away without moving her hands.  She’s pale, and Sara will see her blushing if she moves.  “To change.  Behind the camera.  You teasing little minx.”

“You started it,” Sara points out, very maturely, and also very truthfully.  Mila laughs, dropping her hands as she gets off the bed and hauls herself to the armoire that contains her sleeping robe.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” she calls back, wriggling out of her clothes.  She lays them across a chair, too tired to deal with them for now, and shrugs into the robe, then flops back onto the bed, laying the laptop on the pillow next to hers before she switches off the lights.

“Aww,” Sara coos.  “You look so cozy!”

“Would be cozier with you here,” Mila says honestly, then sighs.  “Three days.  Right?”

“Three days,” Sara agrees, smiling.  “I can’t wait to see you.”

“Yeah,” Mila agrees, smiling softly.  “I can’t wait, either.”

She sleeps surprisingly well that night.

* * *

It’s late.  So late that it’s almost early.  The sun is slowly but surely creeping toward the horizon, lightening the eastern sky, and ugh, it’s going to be a pain getting in bed.  That’s how late it is.

Not that that means much to a shadow assassin.

Phichit flits from the rooftop down into the courtyard, shadow-jumping coming just as easily as breathing, and briefly peers over to Chimlin, who is asleep and therefore not to be bothered.  Cool.  Sometimes she wakes up in the night and gets hungry, and he would’ve hated to keep her waiting while out doing spellwork to re-enchant his throwing knives.  He prefers to do that kind of thing alone, away from the center of the guild and out in the fields away from town.  It just takes a while to get there and back.

He walks inside silently, taking stock of the common room.  Nobody else is in here, which makes sense; people generally only hang around when everyone or almost everyone’s awake.  The time Kohsoom came out of her apartment to tell them off for being too loud, absolutely furious in all her four-foot-ten glory, was terrifying.  Everybody is probably a little bit scared of Kohsoom.

Shaking his head in minor amusement, Phichit picks his way around the couch and tables, the lack of lighting hardly even registering.  Most buildings at the shadow guild have no lights, assuming that all inside are either proficient shadow mages or are accompanied by them.  The exception is the medical building, which was designed to be run by a blood mage and sits at the heart of the compound.

There _is_ a faint light blinking in the room, though, and curious, he walks toward it.  It’s the notice board, he realizes.  There must be a new contract posted.

Hmm.  He doesn’t really _need_ a contract right now, but then again, taking one certainly couldn’t hurt.  He’s got a few more weeks before he really needs to worry about the funds, but being proactive never hurt anybody.

And it definitely can’t hurt just to _look_ at it.  Even though it’s really late and he wants to go to bed.  If it doesn’t immediately pique his interest, he’ll just… walk away.  Better than missing one he would’ve wanted to take.

Mind made up, Phichit makes his way across the common room and around the corner to look at it.  It glows faintly, a big screen that’s enchanted to be visible only to those registered with the shadow spells locked around it.

Just as he suspected, there is indeed a new contract notification, up for grabs should any of the assassins want to take it.  It’s _very_ new, actually, he realizes—the timestamp says it was only just processed a little over an hour ago.  He might be the first one of them to see it.

“Cool,” he mutters to himself, grinning. 

Wait.  On the note of seeing something—oh, whoops, haha.  He winces as he abruptly remembers he’s forgotten to text Yuuri back.  He usually can’t spare the attention to his phone while he’s enchanting—it takes a lot of concentration—but he knows Yuuri really needs him right now.  It’s been… rough.

(And Phichit is none-too-pleased with Ruthenia.  Or King Viktor.  He offered to beat him up for Yuuri, only half-joking, but Yuuri quickly turned that down.)

[01:25] prince of my heart:  
phichit when i get home you need to come visit and eat an entire tub of ice cream and watch bad romcoms with me

Aw, Yuuri…

Well, it _is_ his solemn best friend duty to help with breakups in any way he can, including but not limited to shitty romcoms and ice cream.  The only difficulty is that Yuuri’s going home to Hinomoto, but Phichit lives in Xian right now, working with the guild.  He can’t just resign on a whim, although… after everything Yuuri and his family have done for him in the past, there aren’t a lot of things he wouldn’t do for Yuuri.

So yeah, maybe it’s a little tempting.

But he won’t throw everything away just for a few bad movies and some ice cream.  He might try to wheedle and get some time off, take a leave of absence for personal reasons, but he can’t just up and _leave._

He sighs.  He really ought to reply.

[04:52] phichit:  
well, you know i cant make any promises immediately, but we are DEF doing that over skype or whatever. and im gonna try to visit if i can, too!!!  
also that offer to punch vik in the face still stands, jsyk  
u think im joking but. mmmmmmmmmmmm.  
in any case, idk exactly when ill be able to see u in person but hopefully itll be rly soon, and if it isnt just remember i love u lots and u will be ok!!! <3 <3 <3 <3

That done, he stuffs his phone back into one of his pockets and goes back to looking at the contract screen.  There’s two up; he’s already seen one, the one that got posted yesterday afternoon, and he isn’t really interested.  Someone else can take that one. 

But the new one…

Oh, that’s interesting.  It’s marked with the highest level of guild clearance.  That means only the most skilled assassins at the guild can read the briefing and opt to take this contract.  _Interesting._ That classification is almost always reserved for high-profile public targets. 

Well, consider Phichit’s interest piqued. 

Luckily, the clearance isn’t a problem for him.  He _is_ one of the guild’s most skilled assassins, up there with a few of his friends, like Amir and Leki.  And Kohsoom, though they’re more of mutual acquaintances than anything else.

He scans his fingerprints to the sensor attached to the screen, feels the spells around it shift and settle around him so that he’s the only one who can view what it reveals, and taps on the contract.  An overview pops up, just some brief text and another button for details.  He skims it quickly—it’s political, apparently someone “knows too much” about someone else’s scheming.  Textbook assassination case.

Phichit is about to drop it, not really interested in meddling in court affairs, when he gives in to curiosity and taps the detail box, just idly curious as to whether he recognizes the target.

The picture loads, catching his attention before any name does, but that’s all he needs.  His phone falls from his hand and clatters to the floor as he stares in abject shock.

“Shit,” he breathes.  It’s a good thing he got here first.  He would’ve hated to see this get taken by someone else.  _“Shit.”_

Head already spinning with the half-formed wisps of a plan he desperately needs to formulate, Phichit takes a deep breath to steady himself.  Alright.  Shit, alright, he’s doing this.  Yeah.  Okay.

He reaches a finger to the screen, taps in his credentials, and selects the option to take the contract.  It’s a smooth, streamlined process that the shadow technicians who work for the guild have automated, and guild administration works very well. 

A new message pops up, blinking for his attention.  Despite knowing he’s alone, he still feels almost nauseous from shame and guilt at the thought of someone seeing what he’s about to do.

 _Confirm,_ it reads.  _Phichit Chulanont, do you accept the contract to assassinate Second Prince of Hinomoto Katsuki Yuuri?_

Phichit’s hand shakes as he selects _yes._

 

* * *

There’s a kind of irony that Yuuri isn’t quite awake enough to appreciate fully until later, that morning, as the sun rises.  Viktor is _always_ up before him, always is the one to chirp _rise and shine, Yuuri my dear!_ as he cheerfully hauls the blankets away, always is the one laughing as Yuuri scowls and buries his face in a pillow.  And yet, as their alarms go off, it’s different today.

“No,” Viktor mumbles, hitting snooze.  He wraps his arms around Yuuri again, locking him firmly against his chest, and buries his face in his neck.  “Not yet.”

Yuuri snuggles against him, his hand curving over Viktor’s nape as he lets out a deep sigh.  It’s morning, and for once, Viktor agrees with him: _no._ It’s too early for this.

He drifts back into sleep’s warm embrace (though it isn’t as warm as Viktor’s), content and cozy.  Viktor is clinging even more tightly than usual.  He’s sweet.  Yuuri likes him a lot.  What a darling. 

The alarms go off again, and Viktor lets out a very deep, sad sigh as he props himself up on one elbow to disable them, and Yuuri blinks a few times, squinting up at him.

“I don’t want today to be here yet,” Viktor says softly, and just like that, everything comes rushing back with a _pop._

Yuuri’s cozy, warm contentment melts away.  He deflates, sinking further into the pillows.

“Me neither,” he says softly.  Responsibility calls, though, and he’s suddenly too awake to burrow back under the covers and ignore it.  That would just make this harder on Viktor, too.  Instead, he just shifts, scooting closer again, and presses his forehead against Viktor’s shoulder, silent and solemn.

Viktor’s fingers brush his cheek, tender and soft, and then his hand is cradling Yuuri’s jaw as his thumb strokes his cheekbone with gentle wonder, as if he’s in awe that Yuuri is here, in his bed.

“I should be thankful,” he says, voice low and rough.  “You gave me one last night together.  But all my selfish heart can do is wish for one more day, too.”

He doesn’t say _it’s my fault we don’t have one._ He doesn’t say it, but it’s written in his eyes as plain as the day that’s dawning, and a dull, painful ache settles deep within Yuuri’s chest.

“You’re not selfish,” Yuuri shakes his head, closing his eyes so that his own selfish heart can pretend it’s just another morning for a few seconds longer, instead of seeing the pain in Viktor’s face.  “You’re—you’re doing this to protect me.  That’s as selfless as it gets.”

He doesn’t say _I wish you had let me protect you, too.  Maybe that’s the selfish part._ He’s sure Viktor can read it in his face, in his own dull acceptance and resignation of what has to be.  It’s too late to change it.  There’s no point in bringing it up now.

“I’m an idiot,” Viktor says, and Yuuri looks up at him, biting his lip.  Part of Yuuri, the part that’s still hurting from all of this, wants to agree.  Wants to say _why couldn’t you see how much I wanted to carry this burden with you from the start?_ and _I loved you, damn you.  I still do, why wouldn’t you let me in_ and shake him by the shoulders and cry. 

But there’s no _point_ now.  If there was a time for that, it’s over.

“My idiot,” Yuuri says instead, letting the ghost of a smile flicker across his lips. 

Viktor’s answering smile is beautiful.  The sunlight creeping through his window catches in his hair, falling across his face and making his eyes light up electric blue, like the sky was condensed and saturated and set aglow behind them, and Yuuri’s breath catches in his throat just looking at him.  His smile is _beautiful._

It’s also heartwrenchingly, achingly sad.

“Not anymore,” he whispers back.

Yuuri closes his eyes again.  Then he opens them, strapping steel to his spine to make it through the day.  Just thinking about it is making him tired already, but he can’t show that.

“We should get ready,” he says, and pulls away.  “My clothes are in my rooms.  I’ll… see you later.”

“Wait,” Viktor says, desperately reaching for him, snagging his wrist in a tight grip.  “Yuuri—”

Yuuri turns, looks down at him.

“Have breakfast with me,” Viktor says.  It’s—it’s not so much a request so much as it is a desperate plea, and Yuuri can read that from him easily too, looking down at Viktor with his mussed silver hair and his plaintive face.  “If.  If you will.”

Yuuri melts.  How can he not?  He still loves this stupid, sad, beautiful man, with all his faults and flaws and everything.  “Of course I will, Vitya,” he murmurs, softening as he leans back down for one more hug, burying his face in the crook of Viktor’s neck and breathing in.

Viktor still smells like comfort and warmth and home.  Yuuri has been desperately trying not to think about how he’s going to miss pressing himself into Viktor until the lines between them melt away, about how he’s going to have to get used to sleeping alone again, or about how Viktor’s scent will slowly fade from every single article of Yuuri’s clothing that spent time in his closet.

And Viktor’s grip is still so strong, so loving, and so _sad._ He’s been sad for so long that Yuuri thinks it might have become his new normal, and that makes _him_ sad, too.  God, he wants to stay.  He wants to stay and make Viktor’s beautiful smiles happy again.

“Alright,” Viktor whispers, so soft that Yuuri isn’t entirely sure which of them he’s talking to.  “Okay.  We should get ready.  You’re right.  I should… I should let you go.”

Well, _that_ definitely isn’t loaded phrasing.

Yuuri is silent.  He doesn’t want to agree.  He _definitely_ doesn’t want to blurt out what’s on his mind right now— _please don’t forget me._

“Yeah,” he finally breathes, when it becomes clear that Viktor isn’t actually letting go of him without a response.  “Wouldn’t do to be late.”

It would—it would actually be kind of hilarious, in a very sad and depressing way, if they were late to their parting the same way Yuuri was late for their first meeting.  And by hilarious, Yuuri means he absolutely does not want to keep thinking about this possibility.

He pulls away instead, suddenly feeling the urge to run, to run far away from the lingering sorrow in this bed and in this room.  He wants to bury himself in something else, wants to get away from Viktor and his sad eyes before he drowns in them.  If he can just get on the sky-carriage and _leave,_ he’ll count this morning as a success.  The breakdown _has_ to wait until then.

_I will not cry.  I will not cry.  I will not cry._

“I’ll, um.  I’ll be back.  For breakfast,” he says, and without waiting for a response, he scrambles away from Viktor, barely retaining the presence of mind to leave through the passage through Yuri’s room, which is where the guards saw him enter and didn’t see him leave.

(Ivanovich saw him in Viktor’s rooms, he realizes.  But hopefully Ivanovich and the guards don’t exchange gossip.)

In his rooms once again, Yuuri sinks down onto the cold, neatly made bed and lets out a shaky breath.  These rooms don’t feel like his, not anymore, not with all his personal belongings and everything that made them homey all packed and gone.  He’s a stranger now.

A stranger who has to don a mask and face the world. 

“I,” he murmurs, “am a prince.  I am the Second Prince of Hinomoto and I carry the honor of my people on my shoulders, and I am carried by their goodwill.  I can do this.”

He has one set of clothes left out, ornate but not uncomfortably so.  They’re robes that he can travel in.  Yuuri looks at them hanging alone in his closet and squares his shoulders, blowing out a deep breath to stabilize himself. 

Then he dons his battle armor.

* * *

In the end, he cries over breakfast, and Viktor takes him into his arms and kisses away his tears and apologizes, one last time.  He touches up Yuuri’s makeup after that, too, smiling sweet and sad with tears in his own eyes, too.  Yuuri wants to be angry with him again, but he—he can’t.  Anger is easier, but… he can’t be angry with Viktor for this.  Not after what he learned.

And god, if he isn’t still shaken as hell by that…

He’s going to go home and learn everything he can about philology.  And then he’s going to come back here and take this damn castle apart brick by brick if he has to.  And then he’s going to save Viktor Nikiforov and prove to him once and for all that he can, and _should,_ rely on the people around him.  And then he’s going to kiss him senseless and figure out the rest from there.

(That’s what he’s telling himself to cope, anyway.)

Viktor doesn’t come to the skyport to see him off, asking instead if they could say their goodbyes in private, after breakfast.  Yuuri agreed to that.  He knows the reason is that Viktor is more than likely breaking down right now at this moment, sitting curled up in his own cold and empty bed and clutching a pillow that might even still smell like Yuuri. 

The thought makes his heart hurt, so he pushes it away, turning to the two people who _are_ here to say one last farewell, even after the formal goodbyes at court.

“So,” he says.  “I… guess this is it.”

Mila offers a slight, tremulous smile, arms wrapped around herself as the breeze picks up.  “Yeah,” she says.  “Guess so.”

She steps forward and all but hauls him into a hug, squeezing so tight that Yuuri half-thinks his lungs are going to be irreparably crushed.  He coughs slightly and hugs back, squeaking when she lifts him slightly off the ground.

“Keep in touch, Yuuri,” she says, when she finally sets him down, though her hands are still on his arms, her grip firm.  “We’ll miss you around here.”

“Will do,” Yuuri says, smiling as best as he can when he just wants to cry.  “I’ll… I’ll miss you, too.  It was nice.  Being friends.”

“Yeah,” Mila says.  “It was.”  She takes a shaky breath.  “Come visit sometime, too, if… if everyhing, um.  If it works out.  Okay?”

“Or even if it doesn’t,” Yuri adds, scowling.  He punches Yuuri’s shoulder.  “If you forget to call me when you get back to Hinomoto I _will_ fly over to kick your ass.  I don’t care if you have a magic knife or whatever other shit you pull on me, I _will_ beat you up.  Got it?”

Yuuri lets out a watery laugh and pulls the boy into a tight hug, nuzzling his face into his hair.  “I promise I will call you as soon as I get home tonight, Yura,” he says as Yuri goes from stiff as a board to clinging tighter than an octopus.

“You better!” he insists, pressing his face into Yuuri’s chest.  “You _better!”_

“I don’t make promises I don’t intend to keep,” Yuuri murmurs.  He gives Yuri one last squeeze before stepping back, needing to say one final farewell.

Makkachin is sitting patiently at Mila’s feet.  He was with Viktor earlier, but got restless being cooped up inside, and when he saw Yuuri, Mila, and Yuri walking, he ran to join them, and Yuuri didn’t have the heart to try and stop him.

He kneels now, uncaring of the embroidery on his clothes against the rough stony ground outside the sky-carriage, and hugs the dog.

“You be a good boy now, okay?” he asks in Hinomotan, ruffling Makkachin’s ears playfully.  And he must sound sad, because Makkachin nuzzles into him, fidgeting and whining softly.  Yuuri withdraws to pet his head and offers a little smile as he murmurs, “Take care of our Vitya, okay?  Make him smile?”

Makkachin whines again, licking his cheek, and Yuuri chokes on another watery laugh.  He presses a kiss to the top of Makkachin’s head before slowly, reluctantly standing up.

“I’ll miss you, Makka,” he sighs.  Makkachin butts against his legs, still looking up at him with anxious, worried brown eyes.  “I’ll be okay, don’t worry.  I love you, good boy.”

Yuri lets out a noise that sounds suspiciously like a sniffle.

“Get _going_ already, Katsudon,” he says, voice definitely quavery.  “Ambassador Minami is already waiting for you.  Hurry up.  Or else you’ll be late to call me tonight.”

“Right,” Yuuri says, tearing his eyes away from Makkachin.  He takes one hesitant step backward, toward the ramp into the sky-carriage, then hesitates.  Mila and Yuri both look at him with shiny eyes.  Mila tries to smile; Yuri bites his lip, face blotchy even though he’s not crying (yet).

Oh, to hell with decorum.  Yuuri lunges forward and sweeps both of them into a final hug.

“I’ll miss you both so much,” he breathes, then withdraws and practically sprints away onto the ramp.  Makkachin yelps in surprise, pacing anxiously and almost following him before Mila grabs his collar and murmurs something. 

“Bye, Yuuri!” she calls.  “Have a good trip!”

“I’ll try!” he says, forcing a smile as he waves to both of them.  Then he turns away, before he can lose his courage or let his own tears out, and vanishes into the cabin.  Soon enough, the sky-carriage door closes with a _thud_ that rings of finality.

“Ready?” Kenjirou asks, already seated and waiting.  He, too, is going home, a display of Hinomoto’s lack of amity with Ruthenia.  It’s mostly for show, or Yuuri hopes it will be, and after the terms of the alliance are renegotiated and there’s once again something solid and hopefully comfortable between the two countries, he’ll be able to take up his post again, but in the meantime…

“Yeah,” Yuuri sighs.  He takes his seat and presses his lips together, leaning back and slumping into the cushions.  “Guess so.”

Kenjirou offers a rueful smile and pats his shoulder.  “It’ll be okay, Yuuri.”

“I hope so,” Yuuri says, placing his hand atop Kenjirou’s for a brief moment.  Then Kenjirou withdraws, and with another sigh, Yuuri settles in for the long ride home.

* * *

Phichit takes a full day to [rest](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O0np8WU2Znw) after he signs that damned contract.  First things first—he needs to be on top of his game before he heads out, and coming in at ass-o-clock in the morning is definitely not how to do that.  He spends his time sleeping, checking and double-checking all the spells on all his weapons, packing a bag of the essentials and little more, and finally, downloading all the information that the guild’s database can offer him on this case.  There’s a decent amount for him to work with, including— _somehow—_ Yuuri’s specific travel plans.  He’s going to be in Hinomoto tonight.

And Phichit is supposed to meet him there.

“Oh, jeez,” he sighs to himself, sitting on the edge of his bed and scrolling through his downloaded files again.  There’s lots of background information about habits and possible personality quirks that might be useful, all of which he already knows.

_Target:  Katsuki Yuuri, second prince of Hinomoto, former fiancé of King Nikiforov of Ruthenia.  Noted to be of a skittish disposition; tends to avoid very public places unless accompanied by one or more close companions.  Death should preferably not be able to be traced back to shadow magic.  Must be eliminated before rendezvousing with members of Hinomoto’s royal family or attendants thereof.  Travelling companions should also be eliminated, if possible, but Katsuki is the prime target._

“Oh, Yuuri,” he mutters, chewing at his lower lip in concern.  “What the hell did you get yourself into?”

Well.  Whatever it is, he’s going to find out.  Soon.

There’s only a few things he has to take care of first.

He slips his phone into one of his pockets, then slips out the window and shadow-phases himself over to Chimlin, who is resting in the bright noontime sun after a happy little mud bath.  She lifts her head upon seeing him, and with a wistful sigh, Phichit walks over and places a hand upon her trunk.

“Hey, girl,” he says.  “You’re probably not gonna see me again.  Sorry.  I brought you some peanuts, though.  To make up for it.  I’ll miss you.  You’re the best elephant I ever met, and that’s a fact!”

He stays outside with her for a few more minutes, but time marches relentlessly onwards, and he really needs to get going—it’ll take him a few hours to shadow-phase his way to Hinomoto, and he… needs to be in good fighting condition when Yuuri arrives.

God.  He’s doing this.  He’s—this is happening.

He looks around at the familiar walls of the guild compound.  There’s not that many assassins here—just over thirty—and all of them know each other.  Have each other’s backs, even if they aren’t always super friendly outside of combat. 

But even if he didn’t love Yuuri as much as he does, he also owes the Katsukis a favor for taking him in all those years ago when he first ran away from home.  He’s running away again, in a sense—leaving his uncle and the family estate behind again—but he’s never _wanted_ that estate.  He loves Xian with all his heart, but he has to go.

It’ll be bittersweet, never seeing anyone from the guild again, but…

But he’s doing this.

There’s no other choice. 

Giving Chimlin a farewell pat, he leaves her to enjoy her noontime napping in blissful ignorance that he’s leaving and heads back inside.  Amir and Rani have an apartment near the medical building, and Leki usually can be found hanging around with them, and he’s going in search of all three of them, so that’s his best bet.

Amir and Rani keep their living room very nice and cozy, full of cushions and houseplants.  They also keep the windows thrown wide open to catch the breeze, more often than not.  Phichit knocks on one of the shutters from the outside, perching on the sill, and Amir, amusement dancing in his eyes, comes to let him in.

 _Hey, Phichit,_ he signs, grinning.  _Nice of you to join the party!_

“There’s a party?” Phichit asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Ignore him!” Rani calls from the kitchen, where she’s watering one of her flowerpots.  “He says every day’s a party because he’s excited to be a dad, that’s all.”

Amir raises his hands so she can see him sign a petulant _Every day IS a party, dear!_ back her way, and she laughs wryly.

Leki, lounging on a pile of cushions with a book in his hands, looks up.  “Hey, Phichit!” he says, then frowns.  “You look… serious.  What’s up?”

Phichit sighs.  He glances around the room, then raises a finger—physical movement helps direct the flow of magic, in some spells, and this is one of them—to flick it to the side.  All the shutters are pushed by their own shadows, swinging shut with a clatter.

In the ensuing sudden silence now that the windchimes are muted, everyone can hear Rani set her watering can down as she comes to stand in the doorway to the kitchen.

“Phichit?” she asks anxiously.  “What’s wrong?”

Phichit takes a deep breath.  “I have a favor to ask of you guys,” he says, keeping his voice low.  “I’m leaving.  Please take care of Chimlin for me.”

“Of course we can!” Rani exclaims, one of her hands fluttering to her heart.  “But—you’re…”

 _Leaving?_ Amir signs, picking up where his fiancée left off with his brows high.  _This is about the new contract that went up yesterday, am I right?_

“You’re right,” Phichit nods once, terse.  “I took it, but he’s my best friend, basically family, honestly, and something is wrong, so… I’m going, and I won’t be coming back.  I’m heading out in a few minutes.  I wanted to say goodbye to you guys.  You’ve—you’ve all been really good friends to me, and I’ll miss you, but I hope you understand that I have to do this.”

There’s a collective hush that falls across the room.  All three of them stare at him, wide-eyed.

Then, Amir snorts.  _You both sound like me,_ he signs to Leki and Rani.

“Amir Kafele,” Rani mutters.  “This is _not_ the time for bad jokes.”

_How about good jokes?  I think I have a good sense of humor._

“I will take this watering can and pour it down your shirt, see if I don’t!”

“…You guys are taking this remarkably well,” Phichit remarks, lips twitching.  They’re both certainly much more lighthearted than he feels.  Maybe that’s because nobody has addressed the elephant (pardon the expression, Chimlin) in the room.  “And to think I was actually a little worried you’d freak out at me.”

“Of course not!”  Rani shakes her head resolutely.  “Family comes first, Phichit.  We understand.”

“I think you both are forgetting something,” Leki says, voice troubled as he sits up properly, slowly shaking his head.  Phichit nods.  He, too, is thinking about it.  “There’s the guild oath, Amir.  You and I are bound.”

Amir sobers.  _Yes._

“And… if we want to keep our jobs, we can’t refuse to uphold it,” Leki continues.  Pain flashes through his eyes, and Rani lets out a soft _oh._

“I know,” Phichit says.  He lets out a soft sigh, raking a hand through his hair.  “I… I know.  I don’t blame you at all.  Family comes first.”

Family comes first, and pay from the guild is the only thing allowing Amir and Rani to buy the expensive medicine that her sickly father needs.  Leki, Amir’s half-brother, helps with those expenses as well, and it’s been a while since he took a contract.  Neither of them can afford to fall out of favor with the rest of the guild.

Hard choices lie ahead.  People who work as assassins for a living must, by necessity, be hard people.  They might not like it, but they’ll do what they have to do.

“So,” Leki says.

“So,” Phichit agrees.

They look at each other for a long moment.  Then Leki holds out his arms. 

“If this is the last time we see each other, let’s part as friends, okay?”

Phichit is across the room in the blink of an eye, hugging him fiercely.  “Friends,” he agrees.  “You guys have been the best.  I’m gonna miss all of you.  You’re definitely the best people here, and I’ll _fight_ Kohsoom if she tries to disagree again.”

Leki laughs a watery laugh, patting his back.  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” he says.

Phichit moves on to Amir, and finally to Rani, who nearly bursts into tears into his shoulder.  She restrains herself, though, patting his cheek.

“Take care of yourself out there,” she says.  “And I promise I’ll look after Chimlin, that sweetheart!  Oh—and Phichit!  Here, here.  Take these when you leave.  They’re sweets from my hometown, I made them last night, they’re good for travel, okay?”

She hurries back into the kitchen, fills a little bag despite his protests, and presses it into his hands.

“No arguing!” she says, wagging a stern finger at him.  “Eat them before they go bad.  They’re good with a cup of strong, black tea.  Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Phichit says, managing to quirk a smile at her.  He looks back at Leki and Amir, and sobers again.

“…Phichit,” Leki says, brow furrowed again.  “If… if things do go south.  I want to tell you now.  I just—I won’t be able to walk away or surrender.  I _know_ it’s for a good cause, what you’re doing, but—we, that is, me and Amir, we… have something to fight for, too.”

Phichit nods, shoving down the sadness in his throat.  “I know,” he says.  “I know.  If we do have to fight each other, I don’t expect you to go down easy.  Either of you.  Just don’t expect me to, either.”

 _Well,_ Amir signs, ever the dry wit, _at least we’re all on the same page.  Good lord, you two are dramatic._

Phichit snorts, and Leki laughs. 

“Yeah, maybe a little,” Phichit says ruefully.  Then he perks up.  “Guys!  Final selfie.  Please?”

Everyone crowds in around him as he holds his phone out, snapping a couple of pictures of all of them smiling.  Amir gives him antlers in one of them, and in the one right after that, Rani’s face is covered by a motion blur as she smacks his hands down.  Phichit loves each one of them.

“Wow,” Rani sighs, laughing as he scrolls through them to show them off.  “We really are bad at this!”

“Yeah, we are,” Leki grins.  “I like it, though!  We have personality!”

They spend a few more seconds just laughing and joking, as if it’s any other day, but then the clock in the corner of the screen catches Phichit’s eye, and he blows out a deep, sad breath.

“I hate to kill the mood,” he interrupts, sighing, “but judging by the time, I need to be leaving.  Bye, you guys.  I love you.  Hope I never see you again.”

“Live a good, long life, Phichit,” Leki says.  “And yeah, I hope I never see you again, either.”

Phichit gives them a final long look.  Then he turns and leaps into the shadow-phase again, and the world melts away.

 

* * *

It’s getting late. 

Viktor is[tired](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S76CGGPqI3s), his back stiff from hours of sitting at his desk and reading through the bills proposed for court sessions several weeks off, just to have something to _do._   He’s been going through legal documents all day, throwing himself into jargon and economics and pointedly not thinking about his empty rooms, or the even emptier ones down the hall.  The ones where—

—where _nothing._ He’s not thinking about it.  He’s going to finish reading through this damn page about possibilities of Vespuccian access to Ruthenian waterways, and then he’s going to go to sleep, and only after he’s under the blankets with Makkachin curled up next to him will he allow any thoughts of his personal life and all his failures there into his mind.

(He failed Yuuri.  He failed his Yuuri so horribly.  Was it really only this morning that he was wiping tears from that beautiful face?)

 _Stop thinking about him,_ he reminds himself irritably, tempted to grab a fistful of his hair and just _yank_ to make himself stop.  _Yes,_ he failed Yuuri.  He hurt him and he failed him and he is the absolute worst fiancé on the face of the planet.  With all his talk about trust, hah!  Here he is, living proof that some people just can’t hold onto a blessing that falls into their laps.

(Yuuri was more than a blessing, but the point stands.)

And now he’s gone, and Mama is gone, and Viktor is alone (and it’s his fault), and he has to deal with the mess he’s made.

 _I did this to keep you safe,_ he thinks desperately, because Mama is gone and Yuuri is gone and Georgi’s gone and Yura is leaving and Mila is, too, and he’s so _tired.  You will all be safe if you’re away from me._

And Yuuri knows.  He _knows._   At least that much makes Viktor’s heart lighten, just a bit.  Yuuri…

Yuuri doesn’t hate him.

Yuuri still loves him.

He hates himself for it all the more, but Yuuri… Yuuri loves him.

And _god,_ does he love Yuuri too.  Even if they’ll never be together again.

“One day, my darling,” he murmurs to himself, “I hope you meet someone who adores you as I do.  You deserve all the love in the world.  I hope you can be happy.”

As for himself, he’s pretty sure he’ll never love someone else the way he loves Yuuri.  But he wants Yuuri to be treasured and treated like he deserves, and someone with a heart as beautiful as Yuuri deserves lots and lots of love.

Once upon a time, Viktor would have been delighted to give that to him.  But that time is gone.

…That time is gone, and he _needs to stop making himself emotional, dammit._

He blows out a sigh and flips idly through the pages on his desk, tired enough that the words have started to swim in front of his eyes.  It’s well past midnight by now, surely.  Makkachin is already asleep, snoozing away all curled up in Viktor’s bed.  Dear, sweet Makkachin.

Yuuri was in that bed last night, too.  The pillows still smell faintly like him.  Viktor knows, because he spent an hour this morning crying into one of them.

Damn.  Okay.  It looks like he’s not going to get any more work done tonight.  His thoughts keep wandering.

 _Fine,_ he thinks spitefully, wanting to glare at his own pathetic mind.  _Let’s think about Yuuri, then._

Yuuri, who overheard a terrifyingly important conversation.  Yuuri, who was caught in the room outside, waiting to talk to him.  Yuuri, who wasn’t supposed to be there at all.  Viktor _knows_ that Ivanovich must have ordered the guards to prevent anyone, even the Crown Prince himself, let alone Yuuri, from entering the Royal Suite.  Which means that Ivanovich must now know that there is a passage that lets out in Viktor’s rooms, if he didn’t before.

Great.

And there’s the matter of Ivanovich having caught Yuuri, too.  That frightens Viktor more than he’d like to admit.  But Yuuri must be home by now.  He has to be.  He’s safe.  He’s far, far away from here, and he’s out of the picture now…

…Right?

 _Ivanovich knows that Yuuri knows, though,_ his thoughts whisper, and Viktor bites his lip to avoid hissing out a swear even though nobody is around to see.  He’s worried.  What if—what if Ivanovich tries to send someone after Yuuri again and this time Viktor isn’t there to save him?

 _Don’t be stupid,_ he scoffs immediately.  _Just because you’re not there doesn’t mean he’ll die.  He doesn’t need you.  He’s resourceful, he’ll find someone else.  And everyone would want to protect him because everyone loves him anyway._

Yuuri is safe.  Yuuri is safe.  Yuuri is safe.

He has a feeling that that mantra is going to be one he repeats to himself very, very often in the coming days.  He’ll have to deal with the fallout of having majorly intercepted Ivanovich’s plans.  The murdering bastard won’t be happy with that, Viktor’s sure. 

_Let him come._

Viktor might be spelled so that he can’t say certain things, but he’s ready to play this game as long as it takes.  Ivanovich might be able to put rules on his mouth, but he can’t control his mind, and Viktor _knows_ he’s a dangerous opponent in a game of chess, especially one this far-reaching.

There’s a sudden knock on his study door.

_Tap-tap-tap._

There’s only one person who would be audacious enough to seek an audience with the grieving King at _this_ hour. 

Viktor’s eyes narrow.  Forget speaking of the devil—he just has to _think_ of him.

“Come,” he says imperiously.  The door opens to admit none other than…  “Lord Ivanovich.  Surely you’ve looked at a clock recently?  The hour is most certainly not one for visiting.”

“Apologies, but there are matters which cannot wait,” Ivanovich says, hands clasped behind his back.  He’s a sturdy, resolute figure, broad-shouldered against the silhouette of the open door, and Viktor narrows his eyes again.

“I am the King,” he says.  “I say… they can wait.  This is not the time for your pettiness or your treason, and quite frankly, I don’t like you!  So go along, shoo, get some beauty sleep.  Heaven knows you could use it.”

Ivanovich raises one eyebrow, lips thinning with distaste.  “Ever the bigger person in a given conversation, I see, Your Majesty,” he says drily.  “Unfortunately for you, I don’t care to engage you in verbal tomfoolery.”

“Then, what, pray tell, are you here for?” Viktor asks, leaning forward to rest his chin in the palm of his hand.  Why haven’t the guards closed the door behind Ivanovich?  Sure, nobody’s awake or around, but it’s odd.

“To let you know that I have conferred with my comrades, and we have agreed that your recent behavior makes you unfit to be our figurehead king,” Ivanovich says. 

“Unfit,” Viktor repeats.  The performative levity drains away, replaced by sudden tension.  He slowly straightens, reaching for the ice that waits just below the surface.  “And what do you intend to do about that?”

“My apologies, son,” Ivanovich says, turning away.  “You’re about to find out.”

Viktor frowns after him as he starts walking back the way he came.  What, was that it?  Another threat?  Are they planning to have him killed the way they killed his mother?  That certainly won’t look suspicious in the slightest.  And he’s already on his guard.

“Good night, Your Majesty,” Ivanovich says.  His steps are oddly loud, echoing on the stone floor as he walks deliberately to the door.  “Sleep well.”

“What is this?” Viktor demands, rising slowly to his feet behind his desk.  The air around him begins to cool, an almost automatic defense mechanism, and his fingers itch for the familiar hilt of his sword.

Ivanovich hesitates at the doorway, turning to look back over his shoulder, silhouetted against the light from the hallway.  “I… didn’t want it to come to this,” he says.  “You may not believe me, but I… I _am_ sorry, Viktor.”

The door closes with a _thud._  

A figure melts from the shadows.

 _Oh,_ Viktor thinks.  And then, _Fuck._

He doesn’t have time to think anything else before the figure lunges for him.

He dodges the first blow easily, dropping straight down and narrowly avoiding cracking his head open on his desk.  The shadow assassin lands on their feet and whirls, and Viktor flings himself to the side, getting away from the desk before he’s cornered against it.  At the same time, he throws his arm out with a wordless shout, and a wickedly sharp icicle follows the line of movement, climbing from the floor in milliseconds. 

The assassin jumps out of the way and pulls out a dagger.  They start to sprint at him, but then melt into the shadows on the rug, and Viktor swears loudly, vaulting across his desk to put his back to a wall.

The assassin reappears and the knife slashes down, whistling past his ear as he dodges to the side and raises his leg for a kick that connects solidly, sending the assassin stumbling back a few steps.

Viktor waves a finger—a well-practiced movement for one of his favorite spells—and summons into existence an icy copy of his sword, wrapping his fingers around the hilt and holding it in a guard position as he summons a second one to his left hand.  Ice swords are brittle and break easily, but they’re sharp, too.  Good for stabbing, not so much for slashing.

“What are they planning to do once I’m dead?” he asks, voice hard and cold just like the ice in his hands.  It doesn’t melt.  His hands are too cold for that.

(Yuuri would have laughingly complained about that.  He has to live.  Yuuri would be upset if he died.  He has to live for Yuuri.)

“I don’t really care,” the assassin says, raising the dagger again, and their voice has a good enough command of Ruthenian that he’s pretty sure they must be a native speaker, from the Ruthenian guild.  Interesting.  “They just need your blood, and lots of it.”

A fragment of a conversation from ages ago, in this same study when his mother sat behind the desk, flashes through his mind.  Ivanovich wants him to have a bloody, painful death?  Is his blood going to be used in some kind of spell afterwards?  “My blood?  What for?”

“You talk too much, Your Majesty,” the assassin says, and lunges again.

Viktor catches their dagger on the sword in his right hand, which cracks.  He parries the next blow with his second blade, dropping the first and summoning a new one as he ducks away, and so they go across the room, ice shards falling and being renewed with every clash.  It’s like a vicious, deadly dance—blade against blade, ice against metal, where any misstep will lead to doom.

If only he could get a moment to go on the offensive—but this dagger keeps coming, this assassin keeps flitting in and out of the shadows, around and around him, keeping him constantly on his guard.  It’s a stalemate in the making, until one of them gets tired.

He’s disadvantaged there, he realizes even as he ducks under the dagger when the assassin appears behind him.  He’s had no time to rest all day, he’s been pushing himself, and he’s already exhausted.  The assassin has been preparing for this fight.

And maybe that’s why it’s not so surprising when he finds himself backed against his desk anyway, despite his best efforts to push their fight elsewhere.  Maybe that’s why he’s not even surprised when the dagger nicks his arm, slicing cleanly through his sleeve and into the skin beneath.  He gasps at the sudden pain, immediately raising his dual blades, but the assassin dances back, suddenly skittish.

If Viktor were a more cocky, arrogant man, or at least a more naïve one, he might taunt, might ask whether the assassin thinks a little scratch like this, bleeding or not, is really enough to take him down.  But Viktor is cautious and Viktor is no stranger to people wanting him dead, and he knows what this must mean.

Poison.

The blade was poisoned, and now it’s in his bloodstream, and the assassin is just waiting for it to start to work.

Which means— _shit—_ he has very little time left to win this fight.

His swords feel too cold in his hands.  Almost like the ice will burn him.  He’s never been uncomfortable touching ice before.

But there’s one good thing about the assassin backing off to let the poison do its work.  He has the room to go on the offensive now.

Viktor lunges.

He intends to summon a huge, crashing wave of ice, blocks and icicles and spears like he did in the alleyway with Yuuri.  He intends for this to absolutely decimate his study and pin the assassin down, preventing them from moving, not one inch.  He intends to freeze _everything_ solid.

Instead, a thin sheen of frost coats the carpet, a few icicles lurch into existence and melt almost immediately, soaking everything in cold water, and the swords fall from his hands as he stumbles to his knees, struck by a sudden wave of intense magical exhaustion, the kind that he shouldn’t be feeling at all, not yet.  He knows his limits, dammit, and this wasn’t it.  Panic punches him in the gut.  What’s _happening_ to him?

“What,” he gasps hoarsely, vision swimming, “have you _done_ to me?”

The assassin slowly walks toward him, dagger still held in a guard position.  “Highly concentrated elemental inhibitors in your bloodstream,” is the answer, though he can barely hear it for the roaring in his ears.  Is he going to pass out?  Fuck, he can’t pass out.  He has to live, he has to—who’s going to take care of Makkachin?  And Yuri’s too young, he can’t have to be king yet!

“Fuck,” he breathes, starting to hyperventilate as he tries to force himself to stand, head pounding and nausea climbing steadily up his throat.  His body refuses to listen, and he remains kneeling in his own study, wobbly and in pain.  “ _Fuck.”_

“Don’t take it personally,” the assassin says.  “That kind of thing has taken down plenty of people, not just you.”

The hilt of the dagger connects solidly with Viktor’s temple, and with an explosion of sudden pain, the world goes black.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> viknik just can't catch a break, huh (and no, before anyone asks, he's not dead :P)
> 
> 1\. so um! update schedule who? i don't know her??? but yeah in all seriousness sorry about the delay AGAIN, oh man. jetlag kicked my ass for a while and then breath of the wild consumed my entire soul (am i making a victuuri botw au as we speak? WHO KNOWS... HMMM...) but here we are! finally!! with an extra side helping of Longer Than Planned if that helps?
> 
> 2\. again, the rating went up this chapter because there will be some general dark things going on involving blood magic and the plot behind the scenes. if that kind of thing squicks you out please be careful reading ahead! ♥
> 
> 3\. on discord we now have a [TRFL support group](https://discord.gg/dB9BvgC), in case anyone is interested in that sort of thing. :P
> 
> 4\. goodies!!! [this](http://adreamingsongbird.tumblr.com/post/161649115455/sorejaku-id-like-to-thank-adreamingsongbird) is sorejaku's delightful rendition of the door scene from 11, aka my favorite bit of imagery in that entire chapter, hehe!! and [this](http://adreamingsongbird.tumblr.com/post/161939102060/princessmimoza-the-king-and-his-lover-after) is princessmimoza's absolutely stunning thronesprawl vik + cozy yuuri, im still in awe, um wow??? and finally check out [THIS](http://adreamingsongbird.tumblr.com/post/162329094465/maimerart-this-is-a-scene-from-the-fic-the) utterly breathtaking chapter 8 assassination scene vik and yuuri by maimerart!!!! i love all of these so much, thank you everyone <3 <3 <3
> 
> 5\. okay i really am going to try to get a schedule back in order i sWEar (tentatively shooting for 2 weeks from now, aka july 25) but i have another excuse lined up, my mom's birthday is coming up so we're scrambling to get something in order because it's kinda rare these days that my entire family is in town at once so we wanna celebrate!!! also someone very dear to me is going to come over and stay with me for a few weeks so hehe (✿ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) 
> 
> thanks for reading, everyone!!!! <3
> 
> next time: it's not fair, that i keep the sweet and you taste only the bitter. but then, life's not fair either, is it, my darling?


	13. i'm a little bit lost without you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri returns home and watches the puzzle pieces start to come together, but it feels like something important is still missing...

Yuuri is tired.  It’s late in the evening by the time his sky-carriage touches down in Hinomoto, the achingly familiar outlines of his family’s castle rising up stark against the fading dusky purple echoes of the sunset, and he wants nothing more than to eat something, soak in a hot spring, and sleep for about a week.

 “It’s been a long day, huh,” Kenjirou murmurs sympathetically, glancing at him with a tiny smile.  The two of them start to descend the ramp to the skyport.  “But at least we’re home now.”

“Yes,” Yuuri agrees, dull and monotone.  “We’re home now.”

It feels so bittersweet to be here again.  This castle is certainly home, with its familiar gardens and towers and walls, but his heart hasn’t fully returned with him, and part of it is still convinced that _home_ lies somewhere behind eyes bluer than the afternoon sky, behind a smile warmer than sunbeams, behind a heart more broken than a shattered chalice.

_Oh, Vitya…_

Home, indeed.

Yuuri absently rubs his thumb over the ring still on his finger, wanting its familiar touch.  He’ll have to stop wearing it in public, now that he’s not engaged any longer, but he wants to keep it on his person.  Maybe he can put it on a chain around his neck, tucked out of sight under his robes—discreet, but still comforting.

He and Kenjirou step down from the ramp, and Yuuri takes a moment to stretch, rolling his neck and looking up into the deepening sky.  It’s almost dark outside, but the skyport is just behind the castle.  There’s just a small walkway between here and the entrance through the walls, where his family must be waiting for him.

God, he’s so ready for today to be over.

“I’m so tired,” he mumbles to Kenjirou as they start walking.  Undignified and unprincely, yes, but he doesn’t want an ambassador right now.  He just wants a friend.

“Don’t worry!” Kenjirou says, clearly attempting to be as cheerful as he can manage given the circumstances.  “Soon, you’ll be nice and warm in your own bed.  Sleep is so close!”

“I slept most of the way here, too,” Yuuri mutters.  He sighs.  “I can’t wait to get in bed.”

“Sorry,” a new voice says, “but you’ll have to wait a little longer for that.”

Yuuri jolts, swallowing a shriek as his hand automatically leaps for the knife at his hip, but even as he whirls in the dusky gloom, someone grabs his wrist and squeezes.  Kenjirou lets out a yelp of surprise, about to call for the guards, but the mysterious figure clamps a hand over his mouth.

“For shame, Yuuri,” Phichit Chulanont, of all people, says, shaking his head as he lets go of Yuuri’s wrist.  Yuuri clutches at his chest in shock, staring at his best friend’s eyes, barely visible in the gloom and shrouded in shadow.  “You’ve gotten complacent, letting me sneak up on you like that.”

_“Phichit!”_ Yuuri gasps, his heart pounding from the residual excitement.  “You could’ve given me a _heart attack—_ what are you even _doing_ here, I thought you had to be in Xian!”

Phichit, for some reason, isn’t smiling.  He looks serious, deadly serious, and when he _does_ offer the faintest flicker of a smile, it only barely reaches his eyes.  “I got sent out on a contract,” he says.  He lets go of Kenjirou, too, stepping back.  “Sorry, Minami.  Just didn’t want you to yell.  Now, forgive my brusqueness, but come on, you two.  We don’t have a lot of time.”

“It’s okay,” Kenjirou says, bewildered, “but what are you doing here if you got sent out on a contract?”

“I got sent _here_ on a contract,” Phichit says grimly.  He grabs both of their wrists and starts walking again, striding purposefully toward the castle.  “I need to talk to you and your family, Yuuri.  You uncovered _something_ in Ruthenia, and someone wants you dead for it.”

Yuuri’s stomach drops.  Just like that, all the peaceful daydreams of hot springs and pillows evaporate, faster than a plume of steam.  “Ivanovich,” he mutters.  “Shit.”

Ivanovich must have sent the contract after he caught Yuuri eavesdropping on his conversation with Viktor.  He must not want anyone to know about Viktor being under the stranglespell.  Shit!  What’s his plan?  What does he want to _do_ with his power over the Ruthenian throne?  He’s already sabotaged the alliance, though Viktor has done his best to salvage that.  Oh, god, is Ivanovich going to try to punish Viktor for this, for saving Yuuri?  Oh, no, no, no—

“Yuuri?  Hey.  Yuuri.  Breathe,” Phichit says, firm but gentle, and he lets go of Yuuri’s wrist to take his hand, gently rubbing his knuckles.  “I’m sorry I’m hauling you off, but I need you inside somewhere where I can protect you.  We’re too exposed out here.  Just breathe and keep following me, yeah?”

“I can breathe,” Yuuri mumbles, shaking his head to clear it.  Phichit—Phichit got sent here to _kill him._ On Ivanovich’s orders, because Yuuri got himself caught eavesdropping.  _Fuck._ What might that bastard be doing to Viktor?  No, _no._ Viktor has to be alright.  He _has_ to.

He’s vaguely aware of Phichit pushing open the castle skyport doors, and of the guards’ exclamations of surprise at seeing him dragging both of them behind him.  Phichit cuts a very imposing figure, garbed head-to-toe in black, with a dark cloak swirling around his shoulders and his boots high and just as imperious as his stride.

“Prince Katsuki!” someone says, trying to get his attention.  Phichit tightens his hand on Yuuri’s in response to his distress, and he belatedly remembers that Phichit is _scarily_ good at reading him, especially in person.

“Give him space!” Phichit commands, and even though nobody here _has_ to take orders from him, they all part anyway, because Phichit just has a very commanding presence when he’s in his shadow assassin garb, especially without his usual disarming, sunny smile.  “He needs a minute.  Where is the royal family?”

“They’re in the next room, Lord Chulanont,” one of the guards says, glancing awkwardly between her fellows.  “We weren’t informed that you would be accompanying the prince and ambassador.”

“Plans changed,” Phichit says tersely.  Yuuri recovers from his shock enough to glance at Kenjirou, who gives him an encouraging half-smile, and clears his throat.

“I’ll go see my family, it’s alright,” he says.  “Phichit will come.  Kenjirou, if you’d like to accompany us, feel free, but I know your family is here to see you, too, so…”

“If it’s alright with you, I’ll duck out and go see them, Yuuri,” Kenjirou says, and Yuuri nods.

“Of course,” he agrees, wondering how his voice sounds so stable when he feels so overwhelmed.  Phichit squeezes his hand again.  “We can, ah, fill you in later.”

“Sounds good,” Kenjirou says.  He glances back and forth between Yuuri and Phichit once more, then heads for the other door, into the secondary receiving room.  Phichit glances over the guards again, clearly on edge.

“Let’s go?” Yuuri asks him, voice soft enough that only the two of them are privy to it.  Phichit nods, and Yuuri smiles at the guards as disarmingly as he can.  He can feel their tension decrease slightly, and that in turn helps him calm down a little, too, because all the high-strung emotions in this room really haven’t been helping him with his own swirling internal storm. 

But it’s no wonder the guards have relaxed now that they’re officially allowed to let Phichit pass.  All four of them together still would be no match for him, and everyone in this room knows it.

“Let’s go,” Phichit repeats, and he takes Yuuri by the elbow to gently steer him to the royal receiving room.

His parents and Mari are waiting, just the three of them, and Yuuri can’t help himself.  Phichit showing up out of the blue, with grim eyes and grimmer news, was one thing, but his mother standing in front of him with open arms and compassion written all over her face, in a place that looks and smells just as much like home as he remembers it, snaps him out of the shock, and he feels himself tumbling headfirst into tears, suddenly overwhelmed by emotion.

“Yuuri, my son,” Queen Hiroko says, her voice full of both warmth and gentle sympathy, stepping forward.  “Welcome home, dear.”

He all but falls into her arms, hardly even caring as Mari asks, “Phichit?  What are you doing here?”, because he’s _home,_ and nothing else matters.  His father’s hand comes to rest on his back, warm between his shoulderblades, and his mother’s arms are so tight and so comforting, and _god,_ he has _missed_ this.

“I’m really sorry we have to cut the reunion time short,” Phichit is saying, and with effort, Yuuri forces himself to remember that he’s a prince and not just a son returning home from a long, strenuous trip abroad.  “But there’s important things going on and I don’t know how much time I have until it becomes official news that Yuuri’s gotten home safely.”

“What do you mean?” King Toshiya asks.  Yuuri clutches at his sleeve plaintively even as he lifts his head from his mother’s shoulder, reaching for Mari, too. 

“I’m breaking my contract to the shadow guild,” Phichit says tersely.  He sounds tense and kind of upset, and Yuuri reaches out with his empathy, sending whatever soothing vibes he can.  Phichit glances at him gratefully.  “I … I was sent here to kill Yuuri.”

Silence falls, not dissimilar to the eerie quiet after a gunshot.

“Why?” Mari asks, the first to shake it off.  Hiroko’s arm tightens around Yuuri’s shoulders.

“Who wants him dead?” Toshiya asks, exchanging distressed glances with his wife.

“Ivanovich,” Yuuri says hollowly.  He doesn’t even need Phichit’s confirmation. “It’s him.  I know.  Vitya was afraid of this.”

Oh, god, he might actually be shaking.  Viktor was _right_ , when he clutched at Yuuri with trembling hands and said _you need to get out of here, it’s not safe for you here,_ when he was terrified Ivanovich would find a new way to get rid of him.  Viktor was right.

“Let’s go into the castle sanctuary proper, instead of discussing this in the skyport,” Hiroko says, and belatedly Yuuri realizes that she must be able to feel him quivering in her embrace.  Is he afraid or is he just exhausted?  It might be both.  “Yuuri needs some tea, and we’ll be more secure there.  And you look dead on your feet, too, Phichit dear.”

Phichit quirks a dry, humorless smile at them.  “Only a little,” he says.  “I was shadow jumping all day to get here in time.”

Hiroko clucks disapprovingly.  “You need an actual meal, then,” she amends.  “Both of you.  There’s katsudon waiting.  Let’s go, come on, boys.”

She ushers everyone toward the door, and somehow, the four of them fall into step around Yuuri, as if to protect him.  Mari even rests her hand on his shoulder for a brief moment, murmuring “Good to see you again, squirt,” as they walk.  Yuuri answers her absently, more distressed at the way they all seem so protective.  What if they get hurt trying to keep him safe?  Not that—not that he thinks they will now, because the only one supposed to be here to hurt him is Phichit, and Phichit would never, but… in general?  They can’t keep this up.

When they exit the skyport to walk the short distance to the castle entrance, outside in the night air once again, the tension rolling off Phichit in waves spikes dramatically.  Yuuri glances at him, concerned.

“Let’s just get back indoors faster,” Phichit mutters in response, shaking his head.  “It’s easier for me to defend a room in a castle I know well instead of a flat courtyard.  The darkness isn’t really an advantage in this case.”

“You think another shadow assassin might be out there coming for Yuuri?” Mari asks sharply.  “Why?”

“I don’t know if the rest of the guild has realized I’ve defected yet,” Phichit says.  “I’m planning to lie very low for a while, but they might send someone after me, though, if and when they realize I’m not filling the contract.”

“What?!” Yuuri yelps, nearly tripping over his own feet.  “But they—do you mean you’re just going to have to hide from the guild for the rest of your _life?_ Because—because of _me?”_

Great.  By letting himself get discovered by Ivanovich, he’s ruined Phichit’s life, too!  Is there _anything_ he hasn’t fucked up in the past week?

“Well, maybe, in theory,” Phichit shrugs.  He seems oddly lackadaisical for someone facing the constant threat of assassination.  “But I don’t think it’ll actually work out that way.  The phrasing of this contract makes me think that as soon as word gets out that you’re home, it might get cancelled.”

“Who’s to say they won’t just send another assassin after Yuuri _and_ you?” Mari asks.  They reach the gates, walking through unhindered, and enter the castle grounds.  The King and Queen lead the way toward the sanctuary at the heart of the courtyard and gardens, while Yuuri breathes in the scent of salty sea air and delicate, sweet fruit and blossoms that defines Hasetsu Castle.  Home.

“I don’t know,” Phichit answers.  “Again.  We should talk about this inside.”

Silence falls for a few heartbeats as they continue down the path, taking a shortcut of stepping stones over a flowerbed.  Toshiya finally breaks it by glancing over his shoulder at Yuuri with what’s a clear attempt at an encouraging smile.

“Was your trip alright, at least?”

Yuuri offers a wan smile back.  “It was fine.  I slept through a lot of it.”

“Good, good.”  His father nods.  The silence returns again, but it’s not awkward, not really.  Yuuri is surrounded by a makeshift phalanx of his family.  He can’t feel out of place here.

When they finally reach the inner sanctum, some tension that he hadn’t been fully aware of falls from Yuuri’s shoulders, and he lets out a breath.  Hiroko sends for the katsudon waiting in the private kitchen to be brought in, and Phichit stalks around the sitting room they’ve wound up in, inspecting the doors.  Yuuri lets himself collapse into the nearest pile of cushions; Mari plops down next to him and drapes her arm about his shoulders.

“So,” she finally says.  “Phichit.  What’s going on?”

“I think Yuuri might be able to tell us more than I can,” Phichit says, perching on the armrest of an armchair like a bird, as if he doesn’t quite trust the thought of getting comfortable yet.  “But I’ll tell you what I know.  I have a contract here saying that Yuuri needs to be killed before rendezvousing with Hinomotan intelligence, and preferably anyone he was travelling with also.  Makes me think you know something dangerous.  And that someone knows you know.”

This last bit is said with a pointed, sharp glance, and Yuuri blows out a breath, squaring his shoulders to give himself some confidence.

“I do,” he says, slowly glancing around to all four other faces in the room.  Mari, stern but concerned.  Hiroko, gentle and worried.  Toshiya, comforting and warm.  Phichit, still on edge and tired, and ever so serious.  “I… know a lot.  There’s… oh, god.  There’s a _lot.”_

“Yuuri,” Mari says softly.  She lays her other hand on his knee, but he knows the cogs in her mind are already turning furiously, trying to put this new information together with everything her intelligence network has given her.  “Tell us everything.”

He does.  The words come slowly at first, thick and hesitant, and then he has to slow down to inhale his katsudon (it’s still the absolute best thing he’s ever tasted, and might be even better than usual for how long it’s been since he’s had it here at home), but eventually they tumble out, sentences spilling over themselves like a babbling brook tripping over stones on its way to the sea.

He starts from the beginning, talks about his first meeting with Ivanovich almost a year ago, about his suspicions and the icky feeling permeating Petersburg Palace.  Talks about doubting himself too much to speak up about it until it was too late.  About how Lady Golovkina didn’t feel like she was guilty for wanting him assassinated. 

He even tells them, fleetingly, about Viktor becoming Vitya and about Vitya making a cozy little home for himself in Yuuri’s heart, but that hurt is still too near to reminisce on the happy times, so he moves on quickly, and everyone pretends he didn’t have to swallow a lump in his throat.  He’s grateful for the lie.

When he finally finishes, the room is quiet enough to hear a pin drop.  He takes a sip of water, sagging into Mari’s side, and stares at his hand in his lap.

“A philological stranglespell, huh,” Phichit finally mutters, breaking the silence.  He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair.  “Jeez.  This is… yikes.  This is one hell of a pickle he’s gotten himself into.”

“I wish we knew _more,”_ Mari huffs, blowing out a frustrated breath.  “We know he’s under a spell, but not what its constraints are.  We know Ivanovich is behind this, but not what his goal exactly is.  I mean, obviously, it’s a power grab, and he has no good intentions toward the alliance, so we should be very wary there, but… we don’t know enough to act, do we?”

Hiroko speaks up for the first time in a while, reaching over to lay a hand over Toshiya’s as the two of them exchange a look.

“I wouldn’t say that, Mari.  I think we know enough to tell us how _not_ to act, at least.  We want to preserve the alliance, now knowing what we know, because we have proof that rejecting Yuuri was done to protect him.  In that way, we owe King Nikiforov a huge debt.  By doing this and incurring all our wrath, he saved Yuuri’s life.”

Yuuri bites his lip.  He didn’t _ask_ to have his life saved by being sent away.  There would have been another way around things, he’s sure of it, if only Viktor had _talked_ to him.  Or—well, that would have been impossible with the stranglespell, but he doesn’t think Viktor even _tried_ getting around it to get Yuuri to help him.  He just acted on his first impulse and pushed away.

“He did,” Mari agrees.  She pauses, then gives Yuuri a squeeze.  “Now I feel bad for being angry with him.”

“He’s an idiot,” Yuuri says tonelessly.  An idiot.  A sweet, noble, loving idiot who threw himself away to save someone who might not have even needed saving. 

Silver hair and blue eyes flash through his memory, followed by a smile so sad it tugs painfully in his chest.

Not Yuuri’s idiot.  Not anymore.

“Maybe so,” Toshiya says evenly, no doubt trying to quell a discussion about Viktor’s merits before it starts, but Yuuri feels a little flash of defensiveness.  Nobody was supposed to _agree_ with him!  “But we’re not calling judgments like that right now.  We are just having a civil discussion about what needs to be done.”

“So the stranglespell is the news Ivanovich wanted you dead about,” Phichit surmises, smoothly turning the conversation away from Viktor, and Yuuri flashes him a grateful look, rubbing his thumb over his ring again.  He doesn’t want to think about Viktor right now.  It still hurts too much.

“I think so, yeah,” he agrees.  “He caught me, so…”

“What do we do about that, by the way?” Mari asks.  She gives Yuuri a considering, searching look.  “To buy you time, I guess we _could_ fake Yuuri’s death, but that would be very messy.  Even messier would be revealing that it was faked, which we’d have to do eventually…”

“No, no,” Hiroko says, shaking her head.  “We can’t do that.  Not good.”

Toshiya nods in agreement, and Yuuri echoes the movement with a tiny nod of his own.  Faking his death would only solve problems in the short term, like Phichit buying more time to hide from the guild, but ultimately would really screw them over.  The Hinomotan Court is too large to all be told the truth, which would mean that they’d have to be told that Yuuri was assassinated not long after leaving Ruthenia, and even if it wasn’t traceable, rumors would fly, and anti-alliance sentiment would skyrocket.  Ivanovich would still get what he wants.

Not only that, but returning from the dead and revealing it all as a hoax would do terrible things to public opinion, no matter how exciting it might be.  Who can trust a royal family that hides something as large as the death of the Second Prince?

But also, there’s a tiny corner of Yuuri’s heart that doesn’t _care_ about the politics of the situation, not at all.  He just doesn’t want poor, heartbroken, lonesome Viktor to hear any news of his death.  He doesn’t think Viktor would be able to take that, not in his current state.  And maybe he should feel bad that this is the point that seems most important, when debating whether to fake his own death or not—it would hurt Viktor—but he doesn’t care.  He just wants to protect the man he loves.

…Oh. 

Perhaps this is how Viktor felt about sending him away.

“—do that,” Phichit is saying, and Yuuri quickly files that thought away to stew over later, returning to current conversation.  “Besides, the guild would just go after me when I don’t report back, if we did it that way, so it wouldn’t work, anyway.”

“Then what is your plan?” Toshiya asks, leaning forward anxiously.  “You’re not going to turn yourself in, are you?”

“What?”  Phichit laughs incredulously.  “No, no.  Nope, I was actually going to hang out around here again, if that’s okay.  You see, I have a feeling the problem is going to solve itself.  Our pal Ivanovich over there is gonna cancel the contract when the news gets out that Yuuri’s home, because he’ll assume, correctly, that Hinomotan intel has the stranglespell info now.  That means killing Yuuri no longer is valuable to him. 

“And,” he continues, holding up a finger, “since I’m no longer hindering the elimination of an active target, the only thing the guild will care about me for is that I never show my face around there again.  I can’t go back, but if the contract gets rescinded, they won’t hunt me down.  I won’t have active guild intel running rogue anymore.”

“Oh,” Yuuri breathes.  Relief overtakes him like a great wave, rising up and drowning out all the fear for his best friend that he’d hardly been aware was choking him.  Amid everything else, it’s hardly surprising he’s overwhelmed, but it’s still just— _god,_ he hopes it plays out like that.  “Phichit…”

“We’ll be okay, Yuuri,” Phichit says, offering him a slight smile.  “I think our plan should be that you arrive back home, safe and sound, like planned.  I’ll stick around, but I’ll wait and hide a few days to make sure the guild isn’t hunting me down, and then I can openly be here.  Sounds good?”

“It’d be like a stalemate,” Mari nods.  “Ivanovich would know that we know, but he can’t do anything about it because all of this is under the table.  That works.  But, Phichit, what if the guild does try to hunt you down?  They’d probably know you’re around here.”

Phichit’s smile fades, and his jaw hardens.  Yuuri can sense the levity draining from him again as he squares his shoulders and answers, “If the guild tries to send anyone else, I’ll take care of them.”

It’s not an easy answer.  Yuuri stares at him, knowing he made friends there, and bites his lip.  None of this is good.  They’re all doing the best they can, but god, everyone keeps having to make sacrifices.  Everyone keeps trying to keep him safe, and what’s _he_ doing about it?  He feels so useless!

“Be careful,” Hiroko says softly.  “Please.”

“You know me,” Phichit says, offering a quick, humorless smile.  “Careful’s my middle name, right?”

Mari snorts very loudly.

Yuuri lays his head against her shoulder.  All the relief, now that they have a real plan, is getting to him, and as his worry and fear fade away, he’s left feeling raw _exhaustion._   He’s so tired. 

Around him, everyone is still discussing the news in low voices.  His mother mentions something about the alliance and what it might mean if someone opposed to it makes a power grab, and he knows he _ought_ to be paying closer attention, but he’s so tired right now he just—he doesn’t care.  He’s tired of being a prince.  He just wants to curl up somewhere warm and sleep off all the hurts of today.

He touches his ring again and closes his eyes. 

_I miss you, Vitya._

There is, of course, no response.

* * *

 

[02:38] name buddy:  
hey ASSHOLE!!!!!!!!!!!  
didn’t i TELL u to call me after u land?????  
and yet!!!!!!!! here i am!!!!!!!! WAITING!!!!!! on a call!!!!!!! that shouldve come AGES ago!!!!!!  
what the fuck!!!!!!  
i had a bunch of pictures of cats to show u but i guess u don’t wanna see them!!!!  
i guess it sucks to be u then!!!!!!!!

[02:54] name buddy:  
no srsly why the radio silence katsudon

[03:43] name buddy:  


[03:51] name buddy:  
i cant believe u just fucking went to sleep and forgot to call me, u jerk  
whatever  
im going to bed now i guess

[07:32] Yuuri:  
omg yura i’m so sorry!!!!  
i completely forgot i am super sorry :( <3 some other stuff, um. came up  
i will call you tonight if you want me to!!!!!!

* * *

[07:33] Yuuri:  
hi, sweetheart.  
i know you’re asleep right now (at least i hope you are!!)  
it’s gonna be weird being six hours apart from you now…  
i just wanted to let you know i got home alright and everything. <3  
i miss you.

* * *

The next day is long.  Yuuri, who Phichit pities, spends it being reintroduced to court in the morning, a ceremony that Phichit skips because there’s too many cameras that could see him and enough guards that he’s not worried.  He sleeps in instead, catching up on that much-needed rest after yesterday’s wild shadow-jumping to get to Hinomoto in time to wait on Yuuri’s sky-carriage. 

Sometime around noon, he finally wakes up, stretching luxuriously on the futon in Yuuri’s chambers that he slept on last night, just to make sure that nothing could catch them unawares in the night.  His own rooms are still here, locked and kept tidy in case of his return (he hugged the Queen when she informed him of this), but he figured staying close to Yuuri would be safer for now. 

As is his usual morning routine (…or noontime routine), Phichit freshens up and helps himself to the fruit platter in Yuuri’s sitting room, then runs through some basic stretches and exercises, warming up to highly advanced drills before he takes a quick shower.  A shadow assassin should never let himself get lazy, _especially_ not right after he’s left a guild in a manner that takes any and all rules and throws them out the window.

Man, he really hopes he’s right about the contract getting cancelled as soon as the news of Yuuri’s reunion with Hinomoto’s court gets out.  It sure would suck otherwise.  He’d become a liability around here.

But then again, he reasons, it _has_ to get cancelled now.  The details specifically said that Yuuri was supposed to die before getting back home.  The fact that he failed will be looked into as a guild failing, and it might make admin scrutinze everyone remaining there, to make sure that they aren’t the types of people to fail a mission, but hell, they don’t even have a way to prove he did this intentionally, do they?  Maybe he just accidentally killed himself by shadow-jumping, and they’ll never need to know the truth until it’s too late and the contract’s been cancelled!

It’s a possibility, anyway.  Might be the best-case scenario, but it’s still possible.

Now.  The question remains.  What should he do with his day?

Phichit sighs, stepping through the sliding door into Yuuri’s little private courtyard and letting the grass tickle his bare feet.  The hot spring nearby beckons invitingly, and he seriously considers going for a soak, but then discards the notion.  It’s too early in the day to relax like that.  Even if he’s been missing Hasetsu’s hot springs for ages.

Instead, he sinks down in a patch of shade and pulls out his phone, idly scrolling through social media here and there.  He checks the news, too, and sees that a live broadcast of court is already going on—good, that means the contract is probably going to get officially rescinded any minute now.  It’s too bad he broke and ditched all his guild equipment along the way.  His guild-issued phone would’ve told him of such a notification, but it also would’ve given the guild his location, so it had to go.

It takes a while to sink in, but eventually, the quiet of the bubbling water and the gentle breeze in the trees gets to him.  He sighs.  There isn’t even a dog here to talk to.

“You know,” he tells his shadow, because there’s nothing else, really, “when you throw away a huge part of your life, even if it’s for a good cause, things get kind of lonely.”

He misses his guild friends.  He wouldn’t have made any other decision— _god_ , no, never; he loves Yuuri too much to even consider having left this contract and stayed there—but still, he misses them.  He _misses_ hanging out in the common room and tossing mangoes at each other, or sparring with fighters on his level.  And he’s going to miss that for a long time.

He made the right choice, but that doesn’t make it easier to let go of people he grew to care about.  Ugh.

Well.  There’s still the matter of figuring out what to do with his day.  Maybe he can just use the shadows in the main courtyards and keep an eye on things.  It’s better than sitting around waiting, at least.

Heaving a sigh, he gets to his feet, wanders back into Yuuri’s rooms, and snags another apple from the platter, then figures he probably ought to get a more substantial meal.  He can just pop down into the kitchens for a bit.  Sure.

He _could_ shadow-jump down there.  It would be super easy, especially because he still knows this palace like the back of his hand.  It’s nostalgic, being back here again.  But his magic is still a little worn out from yesterday, and he’d rather save it for when he needs it, so he decides to just walk, albeit using a little bit of glamour to make himself blend into the shadows more than usual.

He meanders his way down the stairs and leisurely strolls through some of the gardens, reaching the orchard behind the kitchens with no incident.  It smells sweet, and he considers climbing a tree for some fruit, but honestly?  He wants an actual breakfast.  Or, uh, lunch.  Kitchen time it is.

He sticks his head through the door and brightens immediately once he spots the head chef, Yuuko, merrily singing to herself as she chops vegetables.

“Yo!” he greets, slipping inside, and Yuuko shrieks, whirling around.  The small knife in her hand accidentally goes flying at him, and he catches the blade between two fingers, easily, and places it back on the countertop.

_“Phichit!”_ she gasps, hand clutched to her chest.  “Oh my—You could’ve given me a heart attack!  What if you got hurt?  Make _some_ noise when you walk in!  When did—when did you even _get_ here?  I thought you were out of the country!  Are you back for good?  Oh my goodness!  Wait, why aren’t you with the court?  Shouldn’t you be getting reintroduced with Yuuri—”

“Hey, hey, hold up, one question at a time!” Phichit protests, holding his hands up placatingly.  He’s unable to repress a grin—Yuuko has gone from shocked and speechless to brandishing her carrot at him reproachfully, and he can’t help being amused.  “First of all, no offense, but one kitchen knife thrown at moderate speed isn’t going to hurt me.  Second, I got back last night.  Third, yes, I think I’m back for good.  I’m not with court because I’m here in secret, kind of, at least for a few days, and that’s also why I’m not getting reintroduced with Yuuri.  Is that all?”

Yuuko is an old friend.  She and her husband, Nishigori (the castle steward), have families that have long been close to the Katsukis, and they were children in the palace when Yuuri was.  When Phichit found himself lost and alone in Hinomoto as a teen, he wound up growing close to all three of them, though of course he was always closest to Yuuri.  So he trusts her to know he’s around.

Besides, she’ll probably let him wheedle food out of her, if he puts on his most pathetic sad elephant eyes.

“No, that’s _not_ all,” she tuts.  “Here, if you’re going to be around, you might as well help out with all those fancy knives of yours!  If you can cut these carrots, I can start frying the onions.”

“This is not what my knives were made for,” Phichit observes, unsheathing the smallest one and taking the carrot offered to him.

“Maybe they’re finding more sustainable employment,” Yuuko sniffs.  Both of them laugh.

“If I cut veggies for you, will you pay me in food?” Phichit asks jovially, starting to slice away.

Yuuko whirls on him again. 

“You haven’t _eaten_ yet?” she cries.  “Phichit Chulanont!  You go sit your ass down in that chair over there and _do not_ move it until the bowl I’m about to give you is _empty,_ do you hear me?”

Sheesh, Yuuko sure is just as much the mom friend as she’s ever been.  It probably helps that she actually is a mom.

“I hear you, I hear you,” Phichit assures her, putting down the carrots and the knife and slipping past her to get to the table.  He could offer to help while she gets the plate ready, but knowing her, she’d smack him for daring to suggest that he work in her kitchen on an empty stomach.  “I did have fruit though!  So it’s not like I haven’t had anything today.”

“Fruit doesn’t count as a meal!” Yuuko huffs.  She good-naturedly prods his side with the handle of a ladle as she sets a bowl full of steaming rice and curried fish in front of him, then goes back to chopping carrots.  “You can help out when you eat, and not one second before.  Besides, I’ve got kitchen assistants, you know.  They just work in the kitchen next door and come to me for advice between meal prep shifts.  I’m training them well!”

Phichit laughs again.  “Sure thing,” he says, stuffing some rice into his mouth and immediately regretting it because it’s _hot._ It must show on his face, because Yuuko shakes her head at him and wordlessly points at the cabinet that has water glasses in it.

Once he’s gulped down a glass or two, he settles back onto his stool with a sheepish grin and blows on the next mouthful of rice before eating it, while Yuuko laughs.  It’s nice, Phichit decides.  It’s really nice to come back and settle in like he never really left.

Maybe missing people is just part of life.  He probably won’t ever see Amir, Leki, or Rani again (or the baby, sad as that thought is), but at least he has Yuuri, Yuuko, and Nishigori back.  That’s a plus.

Phichit spends a good chunk of his day helping Yuuko in the kitchens, then swings by to say hello to Nishigori and their triplet daughters.  They’ve recently turned six, and all three of them scold him quite thoroughly for not visiting in _sooo long._ In apology, he lets them put makeup on him while their father watches, very conspicuously taking photos, and even gives them tips on how to best apply liquid eyeliner.

He gets the latest in castle gossip from the Nishigori family, too—hears all the outrage about King Nikiforov’s treatment of Hasetsu Castle’s own beloved prince, learns about the latest fashion trends taking Hinomoto by storm, and also gets some juicy tidbits about which maids and manservants have the hots for Prince Yuuri now that he’s single again.  This last never fails to amuse him—somehow, Yuuri’s never quite noticed how many people have crushes on him, but Phichit, Nishigori, and Yuuko all find it _hilarious._

Nishigori claps him on the shoulder once, in the evening when he’s about to go find Yuuri after all the pomp and ceremony in court finally has released him.

“You’ve grown up a lot, Phichit,” he says, then lets go and steps back.  “Good to see you again.”

“I was only gone one year,” Phichit laughs, then traipses out the door.

Has he grown up?  Maybe a little, but he doesn’t think he’s so different from who he was when he left Hinomoto.  He’s been doing shadow guild work for ages, before he even _got_ to Hinomoto, so it’s not like that was a first.

Huh.  Whatever. 

Anyway, time to go hunt Yuuri down. 

Grinning to himself, Phichit heads back up to Yuuri’s quarters, up the hill that the castle is built on, and slips inside easily.  Yuuri will be back any minute now, surely, and they’ve got some catching up to do.  He might as well settle himself down in the hot spring to wait.

Just the thought of the current situation sobers him quickly.  Politics… has never really been something that caught his interest, but for Yuuri’s sake, he’s always kept up at least a little, and what’s going on now, uh, doesn’t look great.

Tension between Hinomoto and Ruthenia is higher than it’s been for a long time.  The alliance might break any day now, since the engagement got called off with so little warning.  And yes, it was for a good cause, but nobody else knows that, especially not in Hinomoto, and it feels like an insult to Yuuri.  Which is an indirect insult to the Crown. 

Which is, uh, _not great._

Some extreme voices in Hinomotan court apparently are even arguing that such a breach of conduct is grounds for outright hostility, but they’re a very small minority, thank goodness.  This would be a very stupid thing to risk war over.  No doubt today Yuuri presented a case for peace and continued allyship.

At least now the royal family are all in the know.  They can be united in their desire to keep Hinomoto in the alliance.  Terms will have to be renegotiated, of course, but it’s better than nothing.

He’s distracted from his ruminations by the sound of the door sliding open, and weary footsteps crossing the grass.  Ah, yes.  Yuuri’s finally here.

There’s a sigh behind him.

“Of _course_ you’re in my hot spring,” Yuuri complains, walking around.  He steps into the water, lets out another deep sigh, and then settles down on the smooth stone beneath the surface, leaning his head back against the side of the pool.  “I’d expect nothing less from _you.”_ The words are accompanied by a slight splash as Yuuri flicks water at him, and Phichit laughs.

“You know me so well,” he teases, flicking water back.  “How was court?”

Yuuri blows out a breath and closes his eyes, sinking down until the water is up to his chin.  “I’m tired,” he admits, voice low and rough, and he looks it.  He looks small and tired and worn, like he just needs to rest for a hundred years or so.  “Everyone kept calling Vitya awful things today.  Dishonorable.  Cowardly.  And I couldn’t defend him because—because I don’t know if revealing the full truth to the public will put him in danger, so I _can’t,_ not yet, not until we know more.  So I just had—I just had to take it.”

“Yuuri…” Phichit breathes, reaching over to lay a hand over his best friend’s, under the surface.  His skin is about as warm as the water itself, and it feels a little funny because of that, but Yuuri turns his hand palm up and squeezes Phichit’s fingers, obviously grateful for the comfort.  “I’m sorry.  That does sound exhausting.”

“I just want to save him,” Yuuri whispers, sitting up again and tipping his face up.  Phichit is struck by how wistful and pained he looks, painted a deep silvery-gold by the dim, mingled lights of the courtyard lanterns and the rising moon.  Then he opens his eyes and shakes his head.  “Sorry.  I know that sounds stupid and dramatic.  It’s just—he doesn’t deserve this, you know?  He’s a good man and I—and I love him, and he—he—”

Yuuri chokes off and pulls his hand away to press his palms to his eyes, shaking his head more urgently and sucking in a deep, strained breath.  Phichit moves closer, laying his hand on his shoulder.

“Hey,” he murmurs.  “It’s okay to be sad.  Should we get ice cream?”

Yuuri barks out a little humorless laugh.  “I’ve _been_ sad,” he says bitterly.  “I’ve cried about this plenty of times, believe me.  I’m sick of crying, I just want to _fix_ it!”

“I’m sorry,” Phichit says, because he doesn’t really know what else there is to be said.  “…That’s what we’re working on, right?”

Yuuri nods miserably, letting his hands fall back into the water.  “I know,” he whispers.  “I know.  I just… I keep thinking about how sad he was.  When I left him.  He’s over there all alone.  I have you, and my parents and Mari and Minako-sensei and Sanae-san, but—but Vitya doesn’t have _anyone._ He can’t even communicate about things like his mother’s murder and the choices he’s been forced to make.  He’s all alone, and it kills me to know that.  He’s so _sad,_ Phichit, he’s so sad!”

“I know,” Phichit murmurs.  “I’m sorry.  We’ll save him.  Then you can go over there and smooch him to your heart’s content, yeah?”

Yuuri snorts.  Then he presses his hands to his face again, but even that can’t hide the blush that Phichit knows he’s trying to cover up.  “…Yeah.  I want that.  He’s, um.  Very good at that.”

“At what?  At smooching you?”  Phichit laughs incredulously.  “You know, I feel like you owe me some juicy deets about all _that,_ Yuuri.”

Yuuri sinks further into the water, up to his chin again, and drops his hands.  “Yeah, yeah,” he says, a fond smile in his voice.  It fades as he adds, “But, uh… Maybe, um… maybe a little later?  It’s still kind of… hard.  To think about.  Yesterday was… yesterday was rough.”

Phichit winces sympathetically.  “Yeah,” he says.  “I can imagine.  You don’t have to talk about the juicy deets if you don’t want to, Yuuri.”

Yuuri offers another tiny, slight smile, and Phichit mirrors it, wondering how unfair the world has to be to make his best friend, who deserves the absolute _best_ that the world has to offer, this sad.  “No, I want to talk about it,” he says.  “I’m sure you’ll tease me, but if I can’t talk about it in public, I want to tell _someone_ about how good of a person he is and how happy he makes—made—me.  And I can’t tell my parents, that’d just be _embarrassing.”_

“You could tell Lady Minako,” Phichit suggests, grinning cheekily as Yuuri’s face pales at the thought.

“Oh, _god_ no,” he breathes.  “She’d be at least ten times worse than you in _every_ regard!  I can’t even begin to imagine that—Phichit, have I ever told you that you’re full of terrible ideas?”

“Maybe once or twice,” Phichit says glibly.

Yuuri levels him a flat look. 

“Or maybe twenty or thirty times,” he amends, then shrugs.  “Was I supposed to keep count after like, the fifth time?”

“You’re ridiculous,” Yuuri huffs, laughing under his breath, and Phichit nudges him, grinning.

“You wouldn’t have me any other way, and you know it.”

“I know,” Yuuri sighs, fondness apparent in his voice.  “I know.”

They sit in silence for a few heartbeats, just listening to the rippling of the water around them.  Phichit leans back against the edge of the pool, looking up into the night sky wistfully.  There aren’t as many stars visible here as there were at the guild—there’s more light pollution.  He misses stargazing, sometimes alone with just Chimlin and his thoughts, sometimes with Amir and Rani and Leki.  There’s a little ache in the pit of his stomach that won’t quite budge.  It’s a similar ache to the one he felt when Yuuri first left for Ruthenia, all those months ago.

“Hey,” Yuuri says softly, drawing him out of his reverie.  “Penny for your thoughts?”

Phichit quirks a half-smile at him.  “Just thinking,” he says, shrugging slightly.

“About what?” Yuuri persists.  Even if he wasn’t an empath, Phichit has a feeling that he’d be able to read him like an open book.

So instead of hedging further, he just sighs.  “My friends from the guild.  I’m probably never going to see them again, and that’s for the best.  I mean, considering that the guild oath would bind them to take me in otherwise.  They won’t hunt me down if the contract gets rescinded, but if I run into them, no matter what, I’d be in trouble.  So.  You know.”

Yuuri frowns.  “I’m sorry,” he says, looking down into the water.  “I never wanted to—you got mixed up in all of this and it’s ruining your life and friendships, too.  This is such a mess.  I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault some Ruthenian jackass wanted to frame you for killing the Queen, and then when that didn’t work out for him decided he wanted you dead,” Phichit snorts dryly.  “You got mixed up in it the same way I did.”

Yuuri is silent for a moment.  “Still,” he finally says.  “I’m sorry.  It’s not fair.”

Phichit shrugs listlessly.  “Never has been.”

Yuuri wordlessly reaches over and mirrors his gesture from earlier, laying his hand atop Phichit’s.  Phichit gives him a wan, grateful smile.

“There really is no way you could see them again?” Yuuri asks after a moment, his brows knitting together in consternation.  “Not even on a technicality or anything?”

Another shrug.  “Only way would be if they were on a contract that would be at risk of failure if they follow the guild oath, but the odds of that happening are… really low.  It’d have to be one hell of a weird contract, anyway.”

“Mm,” Yuuri hums.  “I guess you’re right.”

The silence returns again, though Yuuri looks pensive now, biting his lip and staring off into the distance.  Phichit squeezes his hand and goes back to focusing on the warmth of the water and how nice it feels to just sit there and soak in it after yesterday’s long travels.  He could probably fall asleep here.  Though that would be a terrible idea.

“How was court?” he asks.

Yuuri sighs deeply.  “Kind of boring and predictable, if you can believe it,” he says wryly, and Phichit raises an eyebrow.

“Really?” he asks.  “Not terrifying this time?  I’m glad.”

Yuuri looks surprised for a moment.  “No,” he says slowly.  “No, not at all, actually.  I felt—I felt like I knew what I was doing.  I guess I was so busy trying to tell everyone to give Vitya the benefit of the doubt that I forgot to be nervous.”

He laughs sheepishly, but Phichit just raises his other eyebrow.  So.  Being in Ruthenia helped Yuuri find his self-confidence, huh?  Looks like “Vitya” _was_ good for him after all!

“That’s good, then,” he says, grinning.  “Keep up that righteous fury, you spurned lover, you, and we’ll be golden!”

“I’m not a _spurned_ lover!” Yuuri splutters.  “I’m—call us _star-crossed_ if you have to go the dramatic or poetic route!  This is just a tragedy, there was no spurning involved!”

“Hold on,” Phichit says, standing up slowly.  The air is cool against his skin after the heat of the water.  “I need to go get my phone and record you saying that, so that you can never, _ever_ try to tell me that you’re not dramatic about anything yourself.”

“It just sounds better than ‘spurned’,” Yuuri protests weakly, but Phichit knows the truth.  “He broke up with me to _protect_ me.  You know, like a stupid noble hero figure?  Star-crossed fits much better.”

“Whatever you say, Yuuri,” Phichit says, starting to clamber out of the pool.  “I still want this on the record.  Keep talking.”

Yuuri follows him, still protesting.  “It’s not _dramatic!_ If anyone started dramatizing things it was you!”

“Sure thing, Yuuri,” Phichit nods sagely.  Then he pauses.  “Oh, hey.  Since I’m like, actually here in person, do you still wanna get ice cream and watch trashy romance movies?”

Yuuri blinks owlishly.  Then a smile tugs at his lips, and he nods.  “Yes.  I just had a messy breakup and I’m in need of consolation.”

“ _Sweet,”_ Phichit crows, and the two of them head back inside to set up their movie night.

* * *

 

[23:29] Yuuri:  
haha i guess you’ve been busy all day. i hope you’re ok. tell me if you’re not, alright?  
(and i’m being serious about that, vitya.)  
i’ve had a kind of long day, so i’m going to bed now.  good night, i love you ♥

* * *

The second full day he’s home, Yuuri goes to have lunch with Minako and her wife, Lady Sanae.  Lady Sanae is both nobleborn and the captain of House Katsuki’s guard, and his parents have informed him that her niece, Rika Takada, is to be his personal bodyguard, now that they know he’s under intense scrutiny.  He’s met Rika before—it’s hard to grow up around the palace and not run into any and all other children—but they didn’t keep in particularly close touch, and he’s a little nervous to see her again.

Phichit tags along, because as he says with a grin and a wink, “I’m shadowing you, Yuuri!”, and, well, even though he groans at the pun, Yuuri’s fine with that.  Having Phichit along is always a plus.

(Viktor would have appreciated that pun, he thinks.  Viktor would have laughed at it, tipping his head back and closing his eyes and being beautiful, in general.  Like always.  _God,_ he misses Viktor.  He would get along with Phichit like a house on fire.  If _only_ he could be here, in Hasetsu.)

“You look sad again,” Phichit observes, nudging his arm as they walk across one of the courtyards, heading for the apartment reserved for the Captain of the Guard and her family.  It’s a nice space, with an inner garden that Minako uses for meditation.  When he was younger, Yuuri was endlessly fascinated by the koi fish in it.  “What’s up?”

“Just… missing him.  Again,” Yuuri admits, ducking his head.  “I know, I really do sound clingy and stupid and pathetic, I just…”

Phichit nudges him again, harder this time, in a playful but serious admonition.  “You’re allowed to miss him, you know,” he rebukes.  “If you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t have to.  But… like… Yuuri, my dude, those were some pretty shitty circumstances you left under.  No _wonder_ you miss him.”

Yuuri offers him a wan smile and shoulder-bumps him back.  “Yeah… okay,” he sighs.  “Thanks, Phichit.”

Phichit’s grin turns a bit predatory.  “After all,” he says cheerfully, “isn’t pining all the time the only thing that star-crossed lovers do?”

“Oh my _god,_ will you _drop_ that already,” Yuuri wails, burying his face in his hands.  They’re _right_ outside Minako and Sanae’s door, and if Minako hears the _star-crossed lovers_ comment, he’s _never_ going to hear the end of the teasing.  “I should never have corrected you from ‘spurned’.  I should’ve just taken that and kept quiet.”

Phichit grins innocently and rings the doorbell.

“He hasn’t texted me once since I left,” Yuuri mutters as they wait for the door to open.  “I can’t feel what he’s feeling now that I’m so far away, so my paranoia’s spiking up again.  Like… maybe sometime during my flight, he decided he hates me after all or something.  I don’t know.”

“That… is very unlikely,” Phichit offers.

“Or even worse, what if Ivanovich did something to him?” Yuuri frets.  “I can’t tell if this is reasonable fear or just me being scared of everything… I mean, it’s probably the latter, if something big happened to him surely it’d be on the news, right?”

Phichit looks like he’s about to respond, but then the door slides aside and Minako is there, all smiles.

“Yuuri!” she greets, somewhat aggressively ruffling his hair, and he ducks his head with a yip, laughing.

“Minako-sensei, my _glasses—_!”

“And Phichit!” Minako exclaims, grabbing his hand for a very vigorous handshake.  “Good to see you boys.  Lunch is ready, come on in!”

“Oh, they’re here?” Sanae’s voice echoes from the living room, and after a moment she comes walking out to see them, too. 

Sanae is rather short, but she has the sharpest eyes Yuuri has ever seen in his life.  Even sharper than Queen Nikiforova’s had been.  Her head only reaches just above his chin, though the hair piled into a bun atop it adds a bit of height, and when she gives him a courteous bow, her smile is genuine.

“Welcome home, Yuuri,” she says, voice a little softer and kinder than her usual stern tone.  (She and Minako are both equally intimidating, as far as Yuuri is concerned.  They make a perfect match.)  “And welcome back to you as well, Phichit.  It’s good to see you both.”

“Thank you,” Yuuri says, bowing his head gratefully.  He and Phichit follow Minako and Sanae to their table, where all four of them take their seats comfortably. 

“So,” Minako says, cutting straight to the point as usual.  “Your parents filled me in on the information you brought back from Ruthenia, about the situation with King Nikiforov.  I assume you came here with a request, then.”

Yuuri pauses, chopsticks halfway to his lips, and offers her a tiny, sheepish smile.  “You know me too well, Minako-sensei.”

“Well, go on then,” she snorts.  “Spit it out.”

“Don’t spit anything out while you’re sitting at my table,” Sanae says sternly, and Phichit claps a hand over his mouth to hide a laugh.

“You know what I meant,” Minako says, rolling her eyes and lightly elbowing her wife in the side.  Sanae’s lips twitch.

“Perhaps,” she says, and leaves it at that.  Minako goes back to looking impatiently at Yuuri.

“Minako-sensei,” he begins, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve.  “Please teach me how to break a philological stranglespell.”

“It won’t be easy,” Minako warns.  “Are you sure you have the time to commit to learning the counterspells?  Philology isn’t quite like empathy.  It’s often cast in layers.”

“I will give you every moment of time I can offer,” Yuuri says honestly, his chest tightening at the memory of the desperation he felt in his poor Vitya’s mind just three days ago.  The frustration, the sorrow, the helplessness, all of it trapped in there with him.  Oh, _Vitya._   Yuuri _has_ to save him.  “And I will practice as hard as I can.  Responsibly, I mean,” he adds quickly, when she gives him a sharp look.

“Well, alright,” she says, nodding to herself.  “If you’re aware that it’s going to be a lot of work, we’ll get right to it as soon as we eat.  Oh, and Rika will be here in around, hmm, an hour or so, so I suppose if we’ve started, we’ll have to take a break for that, but otherwise, I hope you realize you’re signing your afternoon away to me.”

“That’s absolutely fine by me,” Yuuri says, grimly determined.  “Minako-sensei, I really, really want to do this—no, I need to do this.  I know—I know I could take him to someone who knows better than me, but if I can do it for him… I just know he’d prefer it to be someone he already trusts.”

Vitya would hate being seen in a vulnerable state, especially by anyone he doesn’t know particularly well.  He’d only barely gotten halfway decent at opening up to Yuuri when Ivanovich and his damn dissenters’ coup tore them apart.  Yuuri just wants to go back there and hold him and take care of him.

Minako eyes him with a discerning gaze, then trades looks with Sanae.  Yuuri isn’t entirely sure what to make of that, but then she nods. 

“I know, Yuuri,” she says, more softly than usual.  “You’re hurting, too.  We here want to take care of you just as much as you want to take care of him, though.  So I don’t want to see you overworking yourself or getting frustrated if it doesn’t come to you as naturally as empathy did.  Okay?”

Yuuri nods deeply.  “Yes, Minako-sensei,” he says.  “I understand.  I will be responsible.”

Minako turns her gaze to Phichit.  “Hold him to that,” she deadpans, and Phichit _cackles._

“Oh, I will,” he says, grinning cheerfully.  “Yuuri knows I love forcibly making him take care of himself.  Right, Yuuri?”

“Yes,” Yuuri sighs, long-suffering.  “I know.”

“Good,” Sanae says.  “Now, both of you, hurry up and eat!  Your food isn’t getting any hotter.”

“Yes, yes,” Yuuri squeaks out, hurriedly picking up his chopsticks again.

After the meal, Minako takes Yuuri to the meditation garden, leaving Phichit and Sanae to their (apparently riveting) discussion about knives.  It reminds him that he’s been meaning to talk to Phichit about—about the thing in the alleyway in Ruthenia, just two or so months back.  That was…

Anyway.

“So,” Minako says, settling down on one of the large rocks in the garden.  Yuuri folds his legs and sinks down into the grass at her feet, feeling just like he did as a child first learning about empathy, all those years ago.  “The basis of philology is the bridge between outward expression and inward thought.  Where empathy is focused purely inward, concerned with the inner emotions and general perceptions, philology is all about the specifics of the connection.  How these emotions are turned into words, partly, but mostly, how they leave the mind and go into the body.”

“Yes,” Yuuri agrees, in the lull when she pauses for a moment.  This is basic philological theory.  He knows this much—it’s a simple review, before she plunges him into a world of new spells and new theory.

“Now, if we were going to talk about the general practice of philology,” Minako says, pausing to tuck her hair behind her ear, “I’d keep going in this vein.  We’d talk about the basics, and go a little more deeply into the differences between philology and empathy, because _god,_ Yuuri, you’re a damn good student in magic theory and I’d love to talk your ear off about all this stuff.  Later, though.  Right now, we’re going for the practical approach.  I’m going to teach you a very simple philological spell, and you’re going to try it out.  Alright?  Feeling up to that?”

“Yes,” Yuuri says again, bobbing his head up and down.  He feels fine.  Nervous, slightly, yes, and also more broadly still upset that Viktor hasn’t even looked at his messages, but… fine.  Determined, even.  “Yes, I am.”

“Great,” Minako cheers.  “That’s what I like to hear!” 

She claps her hands briskly, then clasps them in her lap, leaning forward slightly.  Yuuri shuffles forward a bit too, in response.

“Now, this is sort of in the general vein of a stranglespell, since we’re going in that direction,” she begins.  “I want you to envision finding a consciousness, similarly to how you would do with empathy, but instead of probing within, just envision it.  Find the boundaries, find where it closes off.  Good so far?”

“Yes,” Yuuri says for the third time, closing his eyes to help focus better on his mental picture.  He sees each consciousness like a little pinprick of light in a dark field, almost like stars studding the celestial plane, if only he could walk amongst them.  Different emotions make them all burn in slightly different hues, too, ones he can pick up easily after all his years of studying empathy, but—but that’s not what he’s supposed to be doing, right now.

Boundaries.  Where do they end?  Where does each little pinprick fade into the darkness?  Where is the border…

Oh.  Okay.  He has a rough idea of what he’s looking at now, yes.  Okay, yes.

“Philology is _weird,”_ Yuuri mumbles, crinkling his nose.  Empathy makes much more sense than this.

Minako laughs. 

“You’d say the same thing about empathy if we’d taught you philology first, kiddo,” she says.  “Now, I want you to think of an image.  It can be anything.  The more specific, the easier this spell will be.”

Yuuri’s first thought is one too private to share out loud. 

It’s the soft, lazy smile on Viktor’s face every morning, the one that would play about his lips as he caressed Yuuri’s cheek and crooned low, sweet words until Yuuri opened his eyes.  It’s the fall of his pale, messy hair over his forehead, rumpled and uncombed, and so beautifully endearing in the morning stillness.  It’s the weight of his legs intertwined with Yuuri’s, warm and solid beneath the blankets.  It’s the touch of his hand, so tender and loving and gentle against Yuuri’s skin, complete with the cool, smooth texture of his golden ring.  It’s the little chuckle that would rumble deep in his chest as Yuuri sighed and snuggled closer to him, content and happy.  It’s—

With effort, he pushes those thoughts away and thinks of Makkachin instead.

“I have an image,” he says, perhaps a second (or several) too late.  “What should I do with it?”

Minako gives him a single nod of approval.  “You’re going to hold it in your mind,” she says, “and talk about it in various ways.  I’m going to demonstrate a few philological manipulations, and that’ll show you not only what it feels like to be philologically spelled, but also how to resist the different kinds of manipulation I’ll be showing you. 

“The simplest philological manipulative spell is a simple block.  You can’t communicate a certain specific concept.  It’s a dumbed-down version of the stranglespell, really.  It’s easy to stop _something_ from coming out of your mouth.  The tricky thing with stranglespells is how extensively they’re layered to make sure that _nothing_ gets out.  With the simple block, if you change a simple detail, you can get around it pretty easily.”

Yuuri solidifies his hold on his mental Makkachin, lying in the grass with flowers on his head, and nods.  “I understand,” he says.  “I’m ready to begin the exercise.”

“Good,” Minako says.  “We’ll work on this until Rika arrives.  Afterwards, we’ll flip, and I’ll show you how to cast and remove some simple philological spells.”

It’s a good plan, and a very informative session.  Minako blocks his words, then starts twisting them in various ways—at one point, he feels like he can’t for the life of him remember the name of the color green though he knows what it is in concept, and it sits on the tip of his tongue for several minutes until she drops the spell.  It’s incredibly frustrating, and he tells her so.  She laughs and agrees, then reminds him he already knows how to block for it.

When Phichit sticks his head out the door to inform them that Rika has arrived, Yuuri is frankly amazed by how fast time has gone by.  It doesn’t _feel_ like an hour has passed since he first got here.  But he follows Minako back indoors, a little awkwardly, if truth be told.

Rika Takada looks much like he remembers her—she’s even shorter than her aunt (she’s actually shorter than Kenjirou by a good three or so centimeters), with her hair tied back very neatly and her hands clasped in front of her as she bows in greeting.  The long dagger sheathed at her hip looks to be new, though.  Phichit is peering at it curiously.

“Good afternoon, Prince Yuuri,” she says softly.  “Hello, Aunt Minako.”

“Hey, kid,” Minako smiles fondly.  “Nice to see you.  Hey, Sanae, let’s make tea?”

“Good afternoon, Lady Rika,” he greets, inclining his head in return as Minako and Sanae leave them alone in the living room.  “I hear you are to be my bodyguard now?”

Rika straightens again, nodding. “Yes, that is correct.”

“In that case, please just call me Yuuri,” Yuuri requests.  He would feel terribly awkward if she had to go everywhere with him while still calling him _Prince Yuuri_ , although most people assure him that that kind of thing is the norm.  Besides, they played together sometimes as children, years ago.  Surely some familiarity is allowed.

“Of course,” Rika says, bobbing her head quickly.  “I did not mean any offense, Yuuri.  Forgive me for presuming you would prefer a title.”

“No, no!” he says hurriedly. “It’s not a problem, please don’t worry about it!  Thank you for agreeing to do this for me.  I know it’s… ah… probably not your ideal assignment, but…”

Rika scoffs slightly, a tiny little skeptical snort.  “So you _still_ haven’t given up on selling yourself short, have you?” she asks before squeaking and clamping both of her hands over her mouth, eyes wide and mortified.

Phichit _cackles_.

“Oh, boy, Takada,” he grins, slinging an arm about Yuuri’s shoulders.  “I have a feeling you and I are gonna get along _great.”_

“Don’t corrupt her, Phichit,” Yuuri sighs.  Rika looks back and forth between them uncertainly.  “She’s obviously repentant about making fun of me, unlike you…”

“I’ll cure her of that habit real fast, don’t worry,” Phichit assures, tossing a cheerful wink at Rika.  She finally drops her hands and giggles.

“Sorry, Yuuri,” she says, a little bit sheepish at least, and Yuuri smiles as disarmingly as he can. 

“Don’t worry about it!” he says brightly.  “I deal with Phichit all the time.  It’s nothing new.”

“You should call him out on it more often,” Phichit advises, holding up one finger to emphasize his sage advice.  “Our boy here could use some additional self-esteem.  It’s up to us to make sure he gets it.”

“Oh,” Rika says.  “Well.  I’ll, um.  I’ll try?”

Phichit grins.  “That’s what I like to hear!”

It’s funny.  Someone just looking at Rika, a small, uncertain girl with a pink ribbon tied in her hair, probably wouldn’t consider her a fearsome fighter.  But Yuuri knows better.  He’s seen her sparring with Sanae in the past, while she was still training, and when she’s fighting, her uncertainty and shyness melt away. 

In the sparring ring, she was absolutely ferocious, and she’s sure to have gotten much better since those days.  She uses her size to her advantage—speed is her strength, and she excels at making herself a small target—and between her and Phichit, he feels very, very safe in a way he hasn’t felt since Viktor broke up with him that one awful night.

“Thank you, again,” he says, and Rika smiles at him, more genuinely this time.  Maybe the banter with Phichit is putting her at ease—she certainly feels less uncertain than she did a few moments ago.  That’s good.  Phichit has always been good with people in a way Yuuri himself hasn’t, empathy or no empathy.

“It’s no problem, Yuuri,” she says.  “Really.  I’m glad to help out.  I… I’m, um.  Glad.”  She stumbles over her words and ducks her head, embarrassed, but the residual fondness he feels from her makes him think that she, too, was thinking about days spent years ago, happily playing in the grass, before responsibilities made them grow apart.

“Me too,” he says honestly.

Minako pokes her head in from the kitchen, where she and Sanae have been making tea.  “Hey, kids, are you all done hanging out?  Because I have some more grueling lessons for our princeling here.”

“Yes, Aunt Minako!” Rika says quickly.  “I’ll stay out of the way!”

“Me too!” Phichit chirps.  “Can we stay out of the way together so I can look at your dagger?  It looks super cool.”

Rika looks surprised, but laughs and nods.  “Of course!  …May I see one of your knives?  I’m sure you have several right now.”

“I sure do,” Phichit nods, winking.  “Blade trade?”

“Blade trade,” Rika agrees solemnly, and Yuuri gives them both a long-suffering look as he accepts his tea and follows Minako back out into the garden.

* * *

The [waves](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wRWq53IFXVQ) lap gently at the shore, just a few meters away, and Mila sighs contentedly.  Sara laughs, running her fingers through her hair, and Mila opens her eyes to look up at her warmly.

“Cozy down there?” Sara asks, teasingly affectionate, and Mila hums, reaching up to caress her cheek.  She’s lying on their beach blanket with her head in Sara’s lap, listening to the sound of the ocean, and the umbrella above them blocks out enough of the sun that she doesn’t need to have her shades on, and there can’t possibly be anything more blissful than this.  It’s too cold to go splash around in the water, but sitting here in warm sweaters and enjoying the view is really, really nice. 

“Very,” she answers, while Sara closes her eyes and leans into her touch.

“Good, I’m glad,” she hums. 

Mila strokes her thumb over Sara’s cheekbone.  “I could spend the rest of my life like this,” she comments idly.  Sara is radiant out here, and it’s just the two of them on this stretch of private beach near one of the Crispino family’s vacation homes.  The entire place is inhabited by just the two of them, really, taking a week off to enjoy life away from court.  It’s relatively private, as far as palaces and things like that go, and Mila really appreciates the break.

“Mm,” Sara hums, pressing a kiss into her palm.  “Yeah.  Me too, babe.  Just sun, sand, surf, and sweetheart.”

“That was cheesy,” Mila laughs, and Sara scrunches her fingers through her hair some more, laughing along with her.

“Cheesy but true!” she crows.  “You _are_ the sweetest heart!”

Mila laughs again.  “No,” she corrects, “that’s _you,_ silly.”

Sara indignantly pokes her cheek.  Mila winks up at her, letting her hand fall back to the blanket, and lets out another little contented hum. 

“I _really_ could get used to this kind of life,” she reiterates, turning her head in Sara’s lap to watch the waves rise and fall, turquoise-blue and crested with white, glimmering blindingly in the sun.  “Maybe I should just marry you and move here permanently.  It’s so warm, even now.  In Petersburg at this time of year it’s already starting to snow.”

“I wouldn’t be opposed to that,” Sara teases.  “You should come back here with me in summer.  Then we can _really_ enjoy the beach.”

“I’d like that,” Mila smiles. 

The wind picks up, and Sara splutters as it whips her hair around her face for the hundredth time, despite her attempts to tie it back.  Mila laughs at her.

“I tell you,” Sara sighs once she’s gotten it more or less under control, “if I ever come to Petersburg—and I might, soon, you never know!—I’ll have to steal half of the sweaters you own.  To wear all at once.  I can’t do cold weather at _all!”_

Mila laughs at the thought.  Sara would be bundled up, all round like a beach ball.  Adorable.  Especially if the clothes she’s all bundled up in are Mila’s.

But then she sobers.

“No,” she says softly, shaking her head.  “I don’t think you should visit Petersburg this winter, babe.”

Sara cocks her head to the side.  “Why not?”  She hesitates, concern drawing her brows together, and Mila considers sitting up to kiss her because she’s always so sweet and caring.  “Is it because of King Viktor and his… sadness, I guess?”

Mila thinks back to that disturbing conversation she overheard a few months ago (was it really only a couple of months?  It feels like it’s been years), behind the grille in the library, and feels a shiver run down her spine.

What _had_ that been about?  _I think we should go through with the plan,_ and _we might not have to worry about Viktor taking the throne_ … What could they possibly have been talking about?

“That’s not entirely it,” she admits, closing her eyes as dread once again reaches out, all the way from the alcoves in that library far away in Ruthenia, to close an icy fist around her stomach.  Damn.  She thought she’d left this behind when she left Ruthenia.  Can’t she have just a _few_ days without the stress and worry of court?

“Then what?” Sara asks, stroking her hair again.  “Is everything alright?”

“I… I don’t know,” Mila hesitates.  “I feel like it’s not.  I don’t have proof, but I feel like it’s really not.”

“In what way, honey?” Sara asks, concerned all over again. 

“I feel like… there’s something really big going on behind the scenes,” Mila finally answers, troubled. 

The breeze picks up again, and she reaches up to stroke Sara’s hair out of her face before it gets everywhere again. 

“I… okay,” she breathes, making a split-second decision.  “So this _has_ to stay between us, but, um… a couple of months ago, I accidentally overheard two members of court discussing something that sounded like treason, and I’m worried.  You know—like, everyone thought Queen Vasilisa’s death was foul play, until Viktor came out and said it wasn’t?  I’m—I’m not entirely convinced that’s true.  Given the way those guys were talking, it seems awfully convenient… but then again, they also said they didn’t think Viktor would be on the throne at all, so I don’t know.  Maybe I’m just being paranoid.”

Sara’s eyes are wide, her lips shaped into a little pink “o”.  Mila looks up at her anxiously.

“Treason and possibly murdering the queen,” she says softly.  “Most of these rumors didn’t really reach us.  There was certainly talk of foul play at first, but out here, most of that died down after King Viktor made his public statement.  What—what makes you think—oh, Mila!  Is it even safe for you to go back?!” she wails, suddenly misty-eyed, and Mila sits up in alarm.

“No, no, hush, sweetheart, I’m _fine,”_ she reassures, wrapping her arms around Sara tightly.  “I mean… theoretically, ‘they’ know my family has long-standing ties to the Nikiforovs, but I don’t even know if there really is a ‘them’ to be worried about!”

Sara clings back.  “But if they killed the Queen…”

“That’s a big if, babe,” Mila murmurs, tucking her face into the crook of Sara’s neck.  Sara rubs her back and squeezes her hard.  “I just don’t know enough about what’s going on.  That’s all.”

“Is there a way for you to find out more?” Sara frets.  “Safely, I mean.”

Mila shrugs listlessly, uncertain.  She keeps herself pressed close to Sara, not caring as the stiff sea breeze whips her hair all about.  Is there a way?  If only she could conveniently overhear more incriminating conversations.  Preferably ones with more context.  Without getting caught.

Well… who’s to say she can’t?  After all, she _does_ know the secret passages pretty well…

“I don’t know about _safely,”_ she murmurs, the beginnings of an idea glimmering into her mind, “but there might be a way after all…”

 

* * *

“Hey, Yuuri.  You ready to go back yet?”

Yuuri looks up, blinking, as he shakes himself out of his [daydreams](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nlg43w1aK8M).  “Hm?”

Mari shakes her head, amused.  “Got your head in the clouds all over again, huh?” she teases.  “I was asking if you wanted to go back out of the maze yet, but I’m guessing that’s a no.”

Yuuri ducks his head, considering.  “Maybe in a minute or two?” he asks, slowly kicking his legs back and forth.  His feet stir the warm water from the spring bubbling up beneath them, and the ripples send the cherry blossoms that have fallen into the pool dancing, bobbing up and down on their little swirling eddies.

Mari shrugs.  “Sure,” she says.  “No rush.  Just thinking of when we have to be at that one meeting about the ball.”

“Right,” Yuuri says.  “The ball.”

Despite the specific circumstances surrounding his return to Hinomoto, custom dictates that there must be a party thrown to welcome him home—all royalty who have been out of the country for extended time periods are accorded this courtesy.  It would be rude of him to decline, even if the truth is that he really isn’t in much of a partying mood.  He just wants to do something _useful._

He sighs, watching a specific petal drift across the surface until it gets caught by the current and swept into the stream that disappears under the hedge surrounding this little “room”, near the gap where Rika is silently standing guard.  He sat here with Viktor about a year ago, during the first two weeks when they met, last winter.  Hasetsu winters are relatively mild, mild enough that the earth elemental spells woven deftly all around the castle can keep the flowers blooming all year round.  In a way, he’s reminded of the little courtyard connected to Viktor’s rooms, in Petersburg Palace.

Just the thought of that courtyard makes his heart twinge painfully in his chest. 

_Oh, Vitya, my poor, sweet Vitya…_

He’s all alone in that palace now.  Isolating himself, if his lack of reply to Yuuri’s texts are any indication.  _God,_ Yuuri just wants to hold him and comfort him and promise him everything will be okay.  Instead, he’s stuck here, preparing for a party he doesn’t even want.

“Something’s bothering you, little brother,” Mari observes.  She leans back against the trunk of the massive old cherry tree, watching him carefully, and Yuuri sighs again.

“I feel useless and helpless and stupid,” he answers, shrugging dejectedly.  “I want to fix this whole mess, but until we know what they’re planning to use Viktor’s throne _for,_ there’s nothing I can do.  I hate it.  And I don’t want the ball, but I know we have to have it, and that’s just putting me in a bad mood, too.”

“Mm,” Mari hums.  She’s quiet for a few moments.  Then she blows out a long, slow breath.  “Yeah.  Sorry you feel this way.  I wish we could do more, too, but my intelligence agents can’t really get close enough to him to get behind the spell, so I’m a little bit at a loss.  We need a good plan, I agree.  But, Yuuri, you’re not just sitting around doing nothing.”

Yuuri snorts.  “What am I doing?” he asks, flopping backwards, so that his head is pillowed on his hands as he lies on his back on the stone lining the pool, feet still dabbling in the water.  “Just lazing around, it looks like.”

“You’ve started learning philology from Minako,” Mari points out.  “That’s something.  You’re doing that to help him, aren’t you?”

Yuuri huffs.  “In theory, I guess,” he concedes, “but it’s not like it’ll help him much if I can never get close to him.  Mari, I’m worried about him.  He isn’t answering my messages.”

Mari sighs softly.  “Maybe… maybe he just needs some space to cope with the fact that you’re gone before he can be close to you in any capacity.  I don’t know.  I could ask him, if you want.”

_“Mari,”_ Yuuri groans.  “I’m not sending my big sister to go threaten to beat his head in or whatever for making me sad, if that’s what you’re implying.  That’s… that’s like, middle school.”

Mari laughs and leans over to ruffle his hair, and Yuuri squints at her in mild complaint.

“If only,” she muses, settling back against the tree, “there was a way to get you close to him again.  You could get close enough to talk to him, and he already trusts you.  But we can’t send you back to Ruthenia.  Even assuming we had a good excuse, which we don’t, that would definitely be too dangerous.”

“I can manage myself,” Yuuri protests, sitting up suddenly as hope flares in his chest.  “If we found a good excuse, I could take care of myself.  If I could go back, I bet I could get to the bottom of this.  You know I could!”

“No,” Mari says sharply.  “I don’t doubt your ability, little brother, but I would never send you back there while we know little more than that they wanted you dead.  Or want you dead.  If we had more information, maybe, but as it is, there’s no way Mom or Dad would ever agree, and I’m with them on that.”

Yuuri sighs and flops back down, disappointed.  “So I just sit here and twiddle my thumbs and study,” he says defeatedly.  It’s what he expected, but god, there isn’t much he wouldn’t give to be able to go back to Ruthenia and snoop around some more.  Just to see this whole thing finished.  And to prove to Viktor that some people will be there for him whether he asks them to or not.

“Well,” Mari says, obviously trying to find a way to phrase it better, but Yuuri knows her well enough to see when she’s agreeing with him in some roundabout way.  He’s not at all surprised when her shoulders slump just a touch.  “Yeah.  I guess.  It’s a waiting game.”

“I don’t like it,” Yuuri mutters, dragging his feet back and forth through the water again.  “I want to _do_ something.”

“Hmm,” Mari hums noncommittally.  For a few seconds, there’s silence, punctuated only by the rippling water, the gentle breeze in the hedges and trees, and the light chirping of birds. 

Then Mari gasps. 

“Yuuri,” she says excitedly, and he props himself up on his elbows, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes?”

“How would you like to be one of my spies?” she asks, grinning.

Yuuri blinks.  “One of your spies?”

“Elvetia will be hosting their annual ball again soon,” Mari says, her eyes sparkling.  “We’ve already received our invitations.”

“Yes…?”  Where is she going with this?  It’s an annual event, but Yuuri hasn’t always gone.  Usually, Mari has represented Hinomoto there, while he remained here at home to oversee the responsibilities she temporarily left behind.  “You want me to go instead of you and spy on Elvetia during it?”

“Something like that,” Mari agrees, amused.  “But not really on Elvetia.  Yuuri, silly little brother,” she says, “don’t you know?  It’s the one occasion during which Elvetia opens their doors and lets people in!  That means all the high-ranking people will be there, which means your King Nikiforov will quite possibly put in an appearance, given that his would-be representative, Prince Plisetsky, is visiting Prince Altin.”

“Prince Altin would more than likely be there, too,” Yuuri says slowly, sitting up again, because _she’s right._ He hadn’t even thought of this… 

“He might bring Plisetsky, then,” Mari nods.  “Hm.  That wouldn’t be ideal, but it would still enable you to get close to Plisetsky and talk to him in private.  Although getting Nikiforov to come would be best.  Hm…”

“He would definitely show up if he knows I’ll be there,” Yuuri says, and though saying it to his own sister makes his cheeks flush red, he knows it’s true.  His Vitya would love to see him again, he knows it.  Would love to sweep him around a dance floor like nothing matters outside the two of them, spinning in each others’ arms and smiling until their cheeks hurt.

“Now that’s a thought,” Mari hums, tapping her chin thoughtfully.  “What if…”

“It could be news that I’m travelling to Elvetia if I happen to bring a nobleman being reintroduced to high society,” Yuuri muses, mentally apologizing for throwing Phichit under the bus.  “In theory, of course.  I’d have to ask him if he’s okay with going along with this, and it’d be a gamble that his contract is really cancelled, but it might work.”

“That’s definitely a possibility,” Mari agrees, still looking pensive.  “With his skill set, he’d make a good spy, too.  Hmm.  Perhaps we even could get in touch with Prince Giacometti about this.  I’m not sure about the king, but I know the prince was close to that Nikiforov of yours, in the past.  He might be willing to get involved in our puzzle-solving, though I don’t know how much of this sensitive intel we should share.  That’d be a second good reason to send you!  You’d be one of the best possible people we have to judge whether he cares about your Viktor enough to be trustworthy.”

“Must you always call him _my_ Viktor?” Yuuri asks, a bit crossly, because it simultaneously makes him blush harder but also makes him sad all over again.  “Because he’s not.  I mean.  Not anymore.”

Mari purses her lips and gives him a scrutinizing look.  Then she scoots over and ruffles his hair affectionately, leaving her hand resting atop his head.

“Sorry, little bro,” she says.  “Hopefully, he will be yours again sometime soon.”

“Yeah,” Yuuri sighs, closing his eyes again.  “Hopefully.”

He finds himself setting his sights on Elvetia.  Hope is an abstract concept, but perhaps there, he’ll be able to see Vitya again, and that thought chases the abstraction away, and something like hope curls up in his chest, fragile but warm.  Maybe, just maybe, he’ll be seeing his Vitya again soon.

* * *

The night air is [brisk](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S-Xm7s9eGxU).

This, of course, has never posed a problem to Yuri, and as he stands out on the balcony under the stars, looking up at the mountains that block them out, it hardly even occurs to him that the reason he has solitude out here is that it’s too cold for most people.  He keeps himself warm easily, almost unconsciously.  Fire elemental magic flows under his skin, just another part of him.

“Thought I might find you out here.”

Footsteps approach, but Yuri doesn’t bother turning around.  Beka comes to stand next to him, folding his arms and leaning against the thick stone bannister that surrounds the balcony.  They stand together in silence for a few minutes, while the wind ruffles their hair and music swells from inside.  People there are still enjoying the party, celebrating the birthday of Beka’s little sister, but Yuri just wants some air for a bit.

This is one thing he appreciates about Beka.  Beka is one of the few people who respect silence and don’t just want to fill the space with stupid babble that nobody gives a flying fuck about.  He’s content to just stand there and _be._ Yuri wishes he had more people like that in his life.

Ugh.

Katsudon was one of those.  Sure, he could be stupid while babbling about Viktor and stuff, but like, overall, he was good.  Good company.  Made Viktor less… Viktor, and more fun to be around, too.  Instead of all aloof and distant and cold.

“That’s a big mountain,” Yuri finally says quietly, after staring at it some more.  The peak rises up starkly against the dark sky, an inky-black void set against deep indigo netted with glittering stars. 

“It is,” Beka agrees.  “People ski on it.  It’s snowed lately.  We could go, if you want.”

“Maybe,” Yuri says.  He blows out a breath, huffing when his hair falls in his face again, and tosses his head irritably to get it out of the way.  “We don’t have mountains like that around Petersburg.  It’s mostly flat.”

“Well,” Beka says mildly, “we don’t have ports like you do in Petersburg.  So it’s all around a taste of something different.”

“Yeah,” Yuri agrees.  He rests his chin on his palms, still staring out into the night like it’ll give him the answers to the questions he doesn’t even know to ask.  Or maybe it’d just give Aunt Vasilisa back.  She’d probably know what to do—scratch that, she’d _absolutely_ know what to do.  She was always so… invulnerable.  He still hasn’t fully wrapped his mind around the concept that she’s gone.  She was always there.  Isn’t she supposed to be there still?

But now he’s Crown Prince, and he’s not even in his own country.

“Is there anything I can do to help with whatever’s on your mind?” Beka asks after another minute or two, still standing stoically at his side. 

Yuri huffs again.  “I don’t know,” he says.  “It’s stupid.”

Beka shrugs.  He stays quiet, this time, and Yuri shoots him a sideways glance.  He _could_ ask further, the bastard… is he just going to make Yuri spell _everything_ out himself?

Finally, Yuri gets sick of waiting and elbows his friend in the ribs.  “You’re supposed to _reassure_ me and say it’s not stupid!”

“I thought you just didn’t want to talk about it!” Beka defends, raising his hands placatingly.  “Fine, fine.  It isn’t stupid, Yura, and if you want to tell me what it is, I’ll gladly listen.  I just didn’t mean to pry.”

Yuri huffs.  “Forgiven.  I guess.  You’re lame.  Anyway… you’re in luck, I guess, because I don’t know what it is, anyway.  So.  It’s stupid.”

Beka sighs.  Yuri sighs, too, bowing his head and resting it on his folded arms. 

He _misses_ what life was like just last month.  Viktor and Katsudon were stupid and clingy but _happy,_ and Aunt Vasilisa was still here, and he wasn’t _Crown Prince,_ and he was so close to convincing Grandpa that getting a cat would be a good idea, and Viktor wasn’t so closed-off and distant and cold to everyone, and—and—

Life was just _better_ last month, is all.

“I think,” he starts, doubtful and uncertain, “I miss my aunt.  That’s all.”

“Oh,” Beka says softly, and lets out a breath.  He lays his hand on Yuri’s shoulder in quiet solidarity and support, and Yuri appreciates the lack of an _I’m sorry_ more than he realized he could ever appreciate the lack of apologies.  But recently, he’s gotten really, really sick of people saying _oh, I’m sorry your aunt died._ “Sorry” doesn’t fucking fix anything, and he _hates_ the concept of just saying _it’s okay._   It’s _not_ okay.

“I don’t suppose there’s any weird wonky blood magic spells that could bring her back,” Yuri mutters, kind of hopeful but not actually meaning it.  There’ve been enough stupid movies about zombies and blood magic gone wrong to let him know that the answer is definitely no.

“Sorry to disappoint,” Beka says, “but I’m afraid not.”

“Damn,” Yuri sighs.  Beka squeezes his shoulder gently. 

They stand quietly for another minute or two.  The wind picks up, and Yuri irritably tucks his hair behind his ears to make it stop getting in his face.

“I just… I feel like she would know what to do in this whole stupid mess,” he admits after a moment, staring out at the mountain again.  Somehow, this conversation is easier to have if he doesn’t have to look Beka in the eye.  “Because I sure as hell don’t.  And Viktor’s acting… weird.”

“If it’s any consolation,” Beka tries, “she probably didn’t know what she was doing when she first took her throne either.  And you still have Viktor.”

“I don’t think I _do,_ that’s the fucking problem,” Yuri scoffs.  He finally turns and looks up at his friend, crossing his arms irritably.  “Viktor’s acting weird as all hell.  Katsudon says he hasn’t talked to him at all since he left.  Like, is this the same Viktor who was all over him before?  Katsudon told me there’s something up with him, like, something he didn’t feel comfortable talking about on call, and like, shit if I know what that’s supposed to mean, but I believe it.  Viktor’s not talking to _me_ much either, and that’s weird.  He usually never shuts up.”

Even before, when he was all aloof and uncaring and stupid and cold, Viktor would never shut up.  It’d always be pictures of Makkachin or really empty statements about the weather.  Like he craved company but didn’t care enough to actually reach out to anyone.  It made Yuri so angry.  But now he’s just about stopped talking.  He responds when Yuri messages him, but other than that…

“Maybe you need to reach Prince Katsuki on a secure channel, then,” Beka suggests.  “Or even in person, though I don’t know when that would be possible.”

“Maybe,” Yuri agrees, somewhat doubtfully.  He turns back to the mountain.  “Or maybe I should… hell, maybe I should just go back to Petersburg.  Maybe the stress and the grief are—maybe that’s what’s wrong with him.”

In all honesty, Yuri feels like that’s definitely what’s wrong with him.  He’s acting weird—way weirder than usual.  There might be something _else_ up, something he isn’t telling Yuri about, and maybe that’s what Katsudon was talking about, but Viktor… god, he probably does need support.  Yuri spent all his time since Aunt Vasilisa’s death wanting nothing more than to get away from Petersburg, wanting to get some fresh air and peace of mind and freedom from the oppressive grief, but now that he’s out here in Qazrazi, he feels… kinda guilty, for leaving Ruthenia while Viktor’s in this kind of state.

“If that’s what you feel is the right thing to do,” Beka says, quiet and grave, “I wouldn’t stop you.  If you want, I could come with you.  That would be sufficient to quell any talk of you slighting Qazrazi by leaving early.”

Yuri looks up, surprised.  “You’d do that for me on such short notice?”

Beka smiles very slightly, barely visible in the mingled lights of the ballroom and the moon above.  “Of course, Yura,” he says.  “It’s what friends are for.”

“Well… I still haven’t decided if I’d want to do that at all, or if I’m just fucking moping around and shit right now,” Yuri says, unable to keep himself from smiling back, “but, uh, thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Beka says.  “Do you want to stay out here longer, or shall we go back in?  It’s warmer inside, and it’s not that late, if you want to squeeze in another dance.”

Yuri considers his options.  He could stay out here and stare at the mountain and think about Viktor and Viktor’s problems, or he could go back to the ball with Beka and enjoy his own life and his time here, with his best friend.

He grabs Beka’s hand, feeling resolute for the first time since he started thinking about his aunt. 

“Let’s go dance.”

* * *

 [14:32] Yuuri:  
vitya, is there a reason you’ve been ignoring my texts for the past week?  
if i did something please just let me know. i’m sorry and i love you.  
i’ve just been worried.

[14:40] Vitya:  
Hello, Prince Katsuki.  I apologize for not answering you sooner, and for not making this clear sooner, but I would appreciate it if from now on we maintained a strictly professional relationship.  You do not need to inquire after my well-being, as I do not need to inquire after yours, and I would prefer if we were to stop indulging in frivolous small talk.  Thank you in advance for your understanding.

[14:42] Yuuri:  
what??????? how can you just say that????  
vitya what’s going on????????

[14:42] Vitya:  
Prince Katsuki.  Whatever we may have had in the past is just that—in the past.  
We are done.

[14:43] Yuuri:  
can i at least ask why you’re suddenly acting like this?

Vitya:  
[Read ✔️14:43]

[14:48] Yuuri:  
…alright then. goodbye again, i guess.

[14:49] Vitya:  
Goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gasp. viktor how could u
> 
> 1\. so sorry for the delay!!! life happened (all good things, no worries, but they did keep me busy)!! next week i'm heading back out for school but hopefully i'll still have writing time :o
> 
> 2\. chapter title comes from [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tJXgotEszZU) lovely song ♥
> 
> 3\. so yeah this chapter was kinda slow, i know. they can't all be as exciting and fun as 11 was, i guess hahaha. sorry to disappoint those of you who thought there would be a faked death plot!! i admit that would have been really fun to do, but in the interests of the diplomacy scene i've set up here, it would be exceedingly difficult to pull off in the long run, so ... not this time. (maybe in a trfl au tho lol bc i do enjoy the concept!)
> 
> 4\. rika is my babe and i love her, i hope you all do also :D
> 
> next time: oh, whirl me around the ballroom, hold me tighter so i can pretend your touch doesn't feel wrong


	14. won't you turn back to me, my love?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri looks forward to seeing Viktor again, Mila prepares to enter a dangerous world, and Yuri discovers something unsettling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for some violence, and once again, dark themes!!! blood magic!!!

_A few days earlier…_

Viktor doesn’t know [where](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IfWuwTrcKnE) he is.

He doesn’t really… he doesn’t really know much of anything, to be honest.  It’s all kind of hazy.  His head hurts, he knows that much at least.  But he’s lying down.  So that’s good.  Lying down helps.

_Ugh._ Where is Makkachin?  Makkachin always helps him feel better, no matter what.  And he needs all the help he can get, especially because…

That thought stops him short.  Why _does_ he think he really ought to be sad?  There’s a niggling feeling in the back of his aching head.  He’s… he should be sad, there’s something important he’s forgetting, something very, very important, he just knows it!

He needs… he needs all the help he can get, because—

_Yuuri._

Because _Yuuri_ is gone.

The thought makes the fog swirling in his mind burst and dissipate with a _pop,_ and with a gasp, he tries to sit up, his head screaming in protest.  The room tips and spins dangerously, though, and he’s forced to lie back against the stiff, uncomfortable bed, much smaller and harder than his own, gasping again.  This time, it’s to stifle the pain and the nausea and the dizziness, and to get breath into his aching lungs.

“Yuuri,” he chokes out.  “ _Yuuri.”_

There’s an IV drip in his arm, he realizes when he opens his eyes again, and that seems wrong.  Yuuri—Yuuri should be here, with him, but he isn’t, because Viktor is an idiot and Viktor had to keep him safe, but—but he knows, at least, and he’s going home, and he’ll be okay.  He has to be okay.  Everyone loves him.  He’ll be okay.

_Focus,_ he can almost hear his mother lecturing him sternly, and he blinks, trying to make his fuzzy, foggy mind cooperate.  IV drip.  Right.  What’s in it?  He looks up, up at the bags hanging above his little cot, because that’s what it is more than a bed, but the labels aren’t visible from this side, at least, assuming there are any, and he can’t get up to turn the stand around.

He’s so tired.  Where is Yuuri?  Why is he in this tiny stone room?  This isn’t his bedroom.  Is this even in the palace?  It _looks_ kind of like the dungeons, but he can’t feel the usual magic that swirls around down there.  Maybe it’s in a nearby building.  Why is he here?

He can sort of feel blood magic, in some abstract tingly way.  That’s kind of soothing, and he lets his eyes close again.  Mama must be around here, somewhere.  Maybe she’s taking care of him.  If only… if only he could see her again.

His head hurts.  He wants Yuuri.  He wants Makkachin.  He wants _Mama._

Viktor closes his eyes and goes back to sleep.

The next time he wakes, his head doesn’t hurt quite as much.  Maybe the reason he has this drip in his arm is because of his head hurting?  That would maybe make sense, except it still feels weird and fuzzy to think, and he doesn’t like that.  And what hospital looks like old dungeons?  There’s no way this is a hospital.  Why does his head even hurt?

He thinks about that for a moment, trying to focus like Mama would want him to.  Thinking makes his head hurt, but—

The memory of pain exploding in the side of his head before everything goes black shocks him like a bucket of icy water dumped over his head, and he gasps aloud.  He’s learned this time, though, and he doesn’t try to sit up yet, but—but—

Fuck.

_Fuck._

The last thing he remembers is—is the assassin—but he’s not dead?  He isn’t dead, his head hurts and his brain feels fuzzy and there’s a needle in his arm, and none of this makes sense.  What is happening?  Why is he here?

He takes several moments to steady his breathing before he slowly, slowly lifts his head and surveys the room he’s in.  It’s tiny, stony, and doesn’t contain much.  The door is thick wood, with a small, barred slat near the top.

His heart sinks abruptly.

This is not a hospital room.  Nor is it a bedroom.  This is a prison cell.

His first instinct is to panic, to flee, and to get out.  He reaches, desperate and terrified, for the vast reserves of ice magic he knows reside within himself, and finds them—

Utterly depleted.

_No,_ he thinks, eyes widening as he lies on his back, helpless and terrified.  _No, no, no, no, no!_

The drip.  It must—it must be feeding him more of those magic-blocking drugs.  Horrified and disgusted and oh-so-afraid, he snatches at it with his other hand, intending to rip the damn thing out of his skin, only to let out a sharp cry when pain lances through him the second he touches it.  It _burns,_ oh, god, it burns!

Fire elemental charm, then.  Viktor hisses in pain, pressing his poor hand to the cold stone wall next to him in the hopes that it will help.  Why the hell does his head still feel so fuzzy?  Is he concussed?  Is this another drug side-effect?

It strikes him, as his eyes start to prickle and burn, that he honestly does not recall the last time he’s been this helpless and scared in his entire life.  He’s been terrified for other people, like Yuuri, but he’s—he’s never been scared for himself, not like this.  Nothing like this has ever happened to him before.  He doesn’t know where he is.  He doesn’t know why he’s here.  He’s—he’s so scared.

“I want Yuuri,” he whispers brokenly to the still, empty air, a tear sliding silently down from his eye into his hair.  “I want my Yuuri.”

Yuuri makes him feel safe.  If only—if only he could just—

Viktor closes his eyes, his body leaden and his head throbbing and his mind hazy, and cries for a while.  He has no idea how much time passes, and really doesn’t know if he falls asleep again or dozes or if he just stares at the wall, blank and upset, until he hears footsteps in the corridor, footsteps and voices.

“You’re sure you’re up for this?” someone is saying.  Viktor identifies it as Ivanovich and tenses slightly, then forces himself to relax.  He might as well pretend to still be asleep.  There’s not much else he can do.  Maybe if they think he’s unconscious, they’ll say something useful.  Please.  Anything.

“I think it’s a little late for you to be asking me this, no?” someone else says, and Viktor stiffens all over again, his eyes shooting wide open, because that was _his own voice._   Coming from _someone else’s mouth._   “But yes, Alexei, I can assure you that I will see this charade through to the end.  I just need to renew the spell, now that we’ve tested it out for several hours.”

“You won’t need to renew it this frequently, will you?” a new voice asks, and Viktor recognizes Zhanna.  Zhanna, damn her, who served his mother for so long—Zhanna, _damn her,_ who was the last one to see her alive, no doubt.  Zhanna, working with Ivanovich! 

They say it takes a blood mage to kill a blood mage.  It’s an old idiom, not a tried-and-tested adage, but Viktor wonders, for an awful instant, if she was the one who administered a magical poison, if it was _her_ that forced that heart attack on his mother, if—

“No, after this it should only need to be renewed weekly or so,” Not-Viktor says, sounding like he doesn’t really care but has to answer her, like a chore.  “Why?  Concerned about your king?”

Zhanna sniffs.  “Of course you wouldn’t think about this,” she says, “but a body can only regenerate red blood cells so fast.  You take too much of his blood, you kill him.  Then what happens to your charade?”

“Now, now, let’s not quarrel,” Ivanovich says smoothly, sleazebag that he is.  Viktor feels a rising surge of fury in his gut, choking him like embers and flames sputtering just below the surface.  It’s hot anger, not cold rage, and it makes him want to scream, cry, and wail, snarling and howling.  He doesn’t know how to deal with hot anger.  He wants to get out of here.  They—they want his _blood?_ “We’re here working together.  This is the _reason_ we have both you, Sergei, the academic, and you, Zhanna, the doctor.  We are a team working for a greater cause.”

“Yes, yes, Alexei,” Sergei says, still speaking with Viktor’s voice.  The door rattles as a deadbolt slides aside, and then light spills into the dim cell from the corridor.  Viktor keeps his eyes closed and his breathing as steady as he can while tears are still too close to the surface.  He’s frustrated, he’s scared, and oh, god, he wants to go _home._

Home is the familiarity of his bedroom, comforting and cozy.  Home is Makkachin’s solid warmth and Mama’s dry humor.  Home is Yura’s sharp comments and Georgi’s wretched love life and Mila’s cheerful laughter. 

Home is the crook of Yuuri’s neck, the place where Viktor can bury his face and breathe in the scent of someone who loves him, while Yuuri’s arms wrap around him, comforting and tight and so sweet as Yuuri laughs softly (god, he misses that little breathless laugh) and murmurs his name.

He wants to go home, oh, god, he wants to go home so badly it _hurts_ deep in his chest.

“And here he is,” Sergei says.  “Sleeping beauty himself.”

Footsteps approach, and someone touches Viktor’s arm.  It takes every ounce of self-control he has within himself not to leap up despite his aching head and punch, kick, and _scream_ to get away.  Revulsion leaps up in his throat, singing a horrid tune of _don’ttouchme-don’ttouchme-don’ttouchme_ that makes him want to vomit.

“I don’t see why you have to be so caustic, Sergei,” Zhanna says, right above him.  Of course she’s the one touching him.  The fact that she is the doctor who was supposed to protect and help his family, and that now she works with the man who is trying to undo everything Vasilisa spent her life fighting for, rankles.  It stings and it makes Viktor want to recoil in disgust.  How he detests her.  “Do you hate him just because you have to wear his face?  _You_ signed up for this.”

“I did,” Sergei says venomously, “and I don’t regret it, but your little king over there?  I hate him.  And I hate his mother.  Their entire family ruined mine.  So, Zhanna dear, I see no reason I should have to be nice to him.  Let him rot.”

“If he rots, you don’t get any blood,” Zhanna points out.  She sounds weary.  Viktor longs to open his eyes, wanting to see what she’s doing—he can tell she’s doing _something_ with the needle in his arm, but he doesn’t know what.  Is she—is she drawing blood?  She must be.  He still feels woozy and he can’t really feel it, but the needle is in his arm, and they’re—they’re talking about it, so…

A chill runs down his spine.  He wants to go _home._

_“Pah.”_ Sergei lets out a derisive snort, one that sounds positively barbaric in Viktor’s voice.  Viktor decides right then and there that he _detests_ Sergei.  Anyone who makes such a big deal out of hating Queen Vasilisa is someone Viktor will never respect.  “At least I won’t have to wear his stupid face forever.  Just until the bill passes through court.”

“Just give it a few months, you two,” Ivanovich says.  “Zhanna, do hurry it up.  Surely it doesn’t take that long to draw some blood.  You’re not trying to slip him anything, are you?”

“No, my lord,” Zhanna says, monotone.  “I’m replacing the IV line that’s keeping him nourished despite how much blood he’s going to be losing.  He’ll be weak.  I have to recommend we keep these drawings to once a week, at most.”

“Is that your opinion as court physician?” Ivanovich asks.  “Or as a Nikiforov sympathiser?  We all know you have a soft spot for that boy.”

Zhanna sighs.  “Speaking plainly, my lord,” she says, “my ‘soft spot’ toward Nikiforov has nothing on my feelings for my family.  So long as you’re hanging your threat against my sister over my head, you know perfectly well that I won’t risk doing anything against your planning.  If I was the type of person to take such risks, I would’ve done it before you made me poison the Queen.  So, frankly, I don’t see why you keep testing me like this.  It’s cruel.”

“You’re right,” Ivanovich says.  “My apologies, Zhanna.  But I’m sure one as astute as yourself can understand why I might be interested in making sure everyone around me stays on the same page.”

“Yes, my lord,” Zhanna says.  They close the door again, and Viktor hears the deadbolt slide into place again.  He feels a little lightheaded.  The room probably isn’t spinning in reality, but it sure feels like it is.  “Here is the blood, Sergei,” he hears Zhanna saying, slowly growing distant again.  “This should be enough to fuel the spell for another week or two, yes?”

“Yes,” Sergei says.  “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Zhanna says flatly.  The three of them walk the rest of the way in silence, until the corridor door closes with a final-sounding _clang,_ leaving Viktor alone once again.

He probably ought to be more alarmed, given all he just heard.  Did Zhanna know he was awake?  Maybe she did.  Maybe she did, and she didn’t care.  He—he doesn’t know what to think.  He’s so _tired._

Before he knows it, darkness creeps in again, and he falls into another restless sleep.

* * *

“Prince Katsuki!  Lord Chulanont!”

Yuuri glances up just in time to see Crown Prince Giacometti of Elvetia, waiting at the entrance to the castle.  It’s nestled deep in the Elvetian mountains, lush and green at the base and capped by picturesque peaks.  As the sun sinks down behind them, the sky turns gold—it’s truly a breathtaking view.

“Welcome to Elvetia,” Prince Giacometti croons, his eyes sparkling as he bends and takes Yuuri’s hand, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles. “I’m delighted that you could make it.”

“Thank you, Prince Giacometti,” Yuuri says, while Giacometti moves on to give Phichit the same treatment.  “We’re honored to attend.”

“Oh, come now,” Prince Giacometti says, straightening with an amused smile.  “Let’s drop the formalities and be friends, shan’t we?  It’s been too long since we’ve last seen each other, Prince Katsuki.”

“It has been a long time,” Yuuri agrees politely.  Rika falls into step behind him as they walk inside, and Prince Giacometti starts to lead them to the guest wing.  Has he been personally greeting every attendee upon arrival, or is this special treatment?  “Five years, if I remember correctly.”

“Something like that,” Prince Giacometti agrees with a sigh.  “Too long, at any rate.  You’re even more handsome than you were then, you know,” he adds, winking, and Yuuri can’t stop the blush that rises in his cheeks.  “I take it you’ve kept up with your ballet; your legs are absolutely exquisite!”

“Um,” Yuuri manages, ducking his head.  He almost— _almost—_ blurted out that he’s an engaged man, but that’s not true anymore, is it? 

And Viktor might… Viktor is very likely going to put in an appearance here.  It’d be his first major public appearance since the press conference where he announced the dissolution of their engagement.  Yuuri really, really wants to see him again, is counting on it.  Something is wrong, he’s sure of it.  Why in the world would he go from soft _I love you_ s whispered in between desperate kisses to sudden radio silence?  It—it doesn’t make sense!

Prince Giacometti laughs.  “Oh, darling, don’t let me fluster you,” he says merrily.  “It’s just truth, that’s all.  And you, my dear Lord Chulanont, it’s lovely to make your acquaintance as well.  Tell me, do you dance like Prince Katsuki here?”

“No,” Phichit says, cheerful as ever despite his complaints about not being able to _move_ in formal clothing.  “I stay fit in … other ways.”  He throws a wink back at Prince Giacometti, while Yuuri swallows a scandalized _Phichit!_

“Oh?” Prince Giacometti asks, waggling an eyebrow.  “You’ll have to enlighten me about these _other ways_ of exercising, Lord Chulanont!  They sound delightful.”

“They sure can be,” Phichit agrees, grinning.  Rika sighs softly, exuding slight embarrassment as she walks behind them, and Yuuri is quite inclined to agree.  “They involve a lot of exertion, and you have to be very flexible…”

“ _Fascinating,”_ Prince Giacometti drawls.  Phichit grins a little more broadly.  He, Yuuri thinks with fond exasperation, is enjoying this far too much. 

The walk to the guest wing is punctuated mostly by light banter and cheerful small talk.  Yuuri has a nice suite with an adjoining chamber for Rika to stay in, and Phichit is next door.  Prince Giacometti lounges against the wall, smiling indolently, as his attendants carry Yuuri’s luggage into the room.

“Well, here it is, Prince Katsuki,” he says.  “I do hope you’ll enjoy your stay.  Might I ask, though, what made you want to come this time, instead of your sister?  Not that I mind your company in the slightest, of course.”

“Ah,” Yuuri says, smiling as gracefully as he can.  The attendants put his suitcase down next to the elaborate wardrobe and head for the door.  “I suppose I was just in the mood to go out and do things.  I’m sure you’re aware that I’ve recently moved back to my home court, so I decided I wanted to take a bigger role in our foreign diplomacy.”

“Noble of you,” Prince Giacometti says.  The door, old and heavy and wooden, closes behind the attendants with a quiet _thunk._

And the atmosphere changes completely.

Prince Giacometti’s lazy, relaxed posture vanishes.  He crosses the room so quickly Yuuri takes a step back in surprise, bumping into an armchair, and all levity has dropped from his gaze.  He has an general mental shield up, and that’s to be expected—he’s a known philologian, and a very skilled one at that—but Yuuri still gets the feeling of raw _intensity_ from the look in his eyes.

“Prince Katsuki,” he says, voice low and troubled.  “I apologize if this isn’t something you want to talk about with someone who is, essentially, a stranger, but I, for one, am very glad you came instead of your sister.  No offense to her, of course, but _you’re_ the one who was in Ruthenia recently.”

“What does Ruthenia have to do with this?” Yuuri asks, keeping his head as level as he can.  Prince Giacometti is standing a little too close for comfort, with those eyes blazing as they are.  Yuuri wants to put more distance between them, to rebuild the walls of courtly rules and delicate manners, but Giacometti doesn’t seem to care about that, not anymore.

“I,” he says, “am worried about Viktor.  He is not doing well, and you left him.  Why?”

Hurt and indignance rise within Yuuri like a bird soaring on an updraft before he quashes them back down, still a little upset at being blamed for _leaving._ He finds his courage and pokes Prince Giacometti in the chest, pushing him back a step. 

“I did not _leave him,”_ Yuuri corrects icily.  “He made me go.  I appreciate your concern for your friend, but don’t throw around blame before you know the whole story, Prince Giacometti.”

Prince Giacometti looks a little bit taken aback before he recovers, shaking his head.  “You’re right.  My apologies.  You certainly have more of a spine than you did when we last met,” he obesrves wryly.

Yuuri has to resist the urge to roll his eyes.  Mari said the same thing about his attitude toward court these days.  Maybe it’s just that he’s gotten better at holding his own, that’s all. “That happens sometimes, when a person grows up,” he agrees.

“What happened between you and Viktor?” Prince Giacometti asks.  He pauses.  “I’m sorry if I’m being too forward, by the way, but frankly, I’m very concerned.  You’re my best hope at getting to the bottom of this.”

Yuuri bites his lip.  How much should he tell Prince Giacometti?  On the one hand, he might be a good ally, especially because of his close bond with Viktor, but on the other, how does Yuuri _know_ he can be trusted?  Or is this his paranoia and irrational fears acting up again, like it did with the entire _badwrongbad_ feeling in Ruthenia, keeping him from speaking up until it was too late?

“A lot,” he finally says.  “I… share your worries, though.  He hasn’t been acting like himself, and I’m afraid for him.”

Prince Giacometti blows out a breath.  He steps away, sinking down into one of the armchairs, and Yuuri follows suit after a moment’s graceful hesitation.  “I don’t understand why he would send you away,” he says after a moment.  “I know it’s odd of me to say, since you and I have hardly talked for a long time, but Viktor would tell me about you.  You made him very happy, you know.”

The air leaves Yuuri’s lungs with a _whoosh_.  “I know,” he breathes.  Thinking of Viktor’s soft smiles and gentle touches still hurts.  That wound is still too raw.  “I know.  He…”

“Why would he get rid of you?” Prince Giacometti asks.

Yuuri hesitates again.  That mental block… it’s for secure purposes, of course it is, and logically, if Viktor trusts Giacometti, he should too, but he’s very loath to do anything that might put Viktor in more trouble than he’s already in.  That block is keeping him from getting a good reading on Giacometti, and it’s making him skittish.

“You’re trying to figure out what not to tell me, aren’t you,” Giacometti says flatly.  “Prince Katsuki, if you don’t want to tell me what’s going on with my close friend, just say the word, and I’ll be out of your hair until the ball.  Truly.  I’m not here to press.  I’m here to ask for your help, because I’m worried about him.”

_Asking for help does not involve interrogating me the second I get out of my sky-carriage,_ Yuuri thinks to himself, _but sure._

He bites his lip, then sighs.  Viktor trusts Giacometti.  But Viktor didn’t see this entire mess coming from Ivanovich.  Viktor was deceived before, in a scheme many years in the making.  Yuuri wants to make _sure_ Giacometti means well before he says anything.  Viktor has to be safe.  Yuuri is going to save him, and he’s going to be smart about things, instead of paranoid and worried. 

“Okay,” he says softly, looking down into his lap for a moment.  Then, “Okay,” a little louder this time, a little firmer, too, as he lifts his head and meets Prince Giacometti’s gaze.  “Drop your block and let me be sure you mean him no harm, and I’ll tell you everything.”

It’s a gamble.  But if Giacometti is willing to let Yuuri probe him, then Yuuri can rest assured that he really only has Viktor’s best interests at heart. 

Giacometti raises an eyebrow, arched and curious.  “Empath or philologian?”

“Empath,” Yuuri says evenly, keeping eye contact.  “You have your suspicions that something bad has happened involving Viktor.  You’re correct.  If you want to know more, drop that block and let me make sure that I can trust you not to hurt him.”

It’s definitely a gamble.  It’s a _big_ gamble, revealing himself like this.  But Yuuri knows, well, he’s… okay, he normally likes to think of himself as not particularly amazing at magic, but in truth, he has a very deep wellspring of raw power.  He can’t do too much for diplomatic reasons, but if push comes to shove, magically speaking, he can stand his own ground.   

Prince Giacometti hums, crossing one leg over the other.  “So,” he says.  “Viktor got himself swept up in something that made him send away not only the man he fell in love with, but _also_ his own court empath.  That doesn’t bode well.”

“It does not,” Yuuri agrees, inclining his head.  “Forgive my bluntness, Prince Giacometti, but I do not feel comfortable discussing this further until I am assured of your intentions toward him.  I mean no offense by my doubts, but I would hate to see any harm come to him because of my own mistakes.”

A heartbeat of silence passes.  Prince Giacometti’s eyes narrow as he considers Yuuri, obviously weighing his options.  Then he shifts in his chair, smiling that cool, collected smile again.

“Oh, very well,” he says.  “If you’re going to be in my head, you might as well call me Christophe, then.  Let’s be partners in crime, shall we?”  He leans forward, offering his hand.

Yuuri blinks.  He looks at the offered hand for a moment, then smiles, leaning forward to shake it.  The second he does, he feels the mental barriers around Prince Giaco—that is, around Christophe’s mind lower.

“You can call me Yuuri,” he says, and closes his eyes to focus his power.

He reaches into the other prince’s mind slowly and tentatively, searching for any threads of malice or lies.  They can be covered up, but he’s trained under Minako’s watchful eye, and he knows how to detect deceptions, knows what the telltale signs are, and so far, he doesn’t see any of that here.

_worryfriendworryfriend,_ sings a strand of Christophe’s mind, the loudest one at the forefront.  There’s also _suspicionwhatdidthisonedo_ and _tensiontension_ , like he’s a spring, coiled and ready to snap, but that Yuuri can understand.  Being examined by an empath that one barely knows must be stressful. 

Finally, digging a little deeper and sending little whispering tendrils of _findlovefindlove_ out, to call those feelings forward, Yuuri finds what he’s looking for.  He sees flashes of memory, unfamiliar but warm, and passes those by until he gets the emotions he wants: warmth, concern, and affection, directed at a close friend.  And worry.  Sorrow at separation.  Grief, for … oh.  For the friend’s mother.  Yes, this is Christophe’s love for Viktor, and it seems like it’s real.  He only wants the best for his friend.

Satisfied, Yuuri withdraws, settling back slightly.

“Okay,” he says.  “I trust you.”

Christophe takes a moment, blinking and drawing himself back to reality, but then he offers a hint of that lazy smile from earlier.  “Thank you,” he drawls.  “Now, I’ll send for refreshments to be brought up.  I know it’s not very courteous of me to corner you like this, right after your travels, but please.  Tell me what happened to my best friend.”

“It’s a long story,” Yuuri warns.  “And not a very happy one.”

“I figured it would be something like that,” Christophe says.  “He sent you away.  Of course it wouldn’t be happy.”

Yuuri hesitates, thinking again of Viktor, Viktor of a month ago when he was still happy and laughing, texting his friend and smiling.  “He… told you that much about me?  What I was worth to him?”

Christophe offers a thin, lopsided smile, one that makes Yuuri’s heart lurch in his chest. 

“Yuuri, darling, he told me so much more.  To him, you were _everything.”_

* * *

Yuuri enters the ballroom with Phichit at his side, head held high as their names are announced to the floor.  Phichit seems a little nervous, and Yuuri sends him a gentle nudge of _it’salright-i’mhere_ as they descend the stairs.  Several other nobles and royal figures from around the world are gathered already; they’re going to have to split up to mingle for politeness’s sake soon.

“How are you such a natural at walking around in outfits like these,” Phichit hisses as they step onto the floor, and most attention on them fades as they enter the crowd.  The ballroom is decorated lavishly in gold and white, and in the glow from the glittering crystalline chandeliers, everything glimmers like [magic](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0feNVUwQA8U).  It could be a scene right out of a movie.  “I feel like I’m going to trip over my own clothes.”

“Just walk with confidence and you’ll be fine,” Yuuri murmurs back, offering his friend his arm.  “They’re tailored to fit you.  You’re not going to trip.”

“I’d be happier in a good pair of combat boots,” Phichit mutters.  He glances around the ballroom, taking it all, and concedes, “But… this room setup is pretty sweet.”

Yuuri laughs, keeping his voice light and merry.  He’s not looking forward to how many people are surely going to ask him about his relationship with Viktor and how it crumbled so quickly, but he has to pretend he’s fine with being out here amongst the throng.  “There’s a snack table over there, too.  The chocolate éclairs look particularly good, if you ask me.”

“I saw it, and I am definitely going to eat at least twelve of them,” Phichit says.  He pauses, tilting his head to the side to listen to the music, and then brightens.  “Hey, it’s a foxtrot!  I remember how to do those.  Wanna go dance?”

“Sure!” Yuuri says, also brightening.  “You lead.  That way, I won’t accidentally try to lead any moves you don’t know how to do.”

“Sure thing, if that’s what you wanna do,” Phichit says as he takes Yuuri’s hand, deftly weaving him through the crowd toward the dance floor.  “I’ll bullshit my way through it, but I remember I like foxtrots well enough.  Besides, you’re not giving yourself enough credit.  Those refresher dance lessons you gave me were pretty good!”

Yuuri laughs.  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” he says.  “If you want me to lead then, I can.”

“We can take turns,” Phichit suggests brightly, pulling him onto the floor.  Yuuri takes up a follower’s position, facing inward and letting Phichit lead him backwards into the first feather step.  “Next dance, you lead.”

“Mm,” Yuuri hums, grinning.  “Okay.”

They don’t talk too much through the rest of the dance, and the one after it—a quickstep, which is, as its name implies, rather fast-paced, and aside from the occasional “oh, sorry” in case they get too close to another couple on the floor, there isn’t much time to speak.  They just laugh as Phichit twirls Yuuri through a spin turn in the corner, then leads him through a set of locks back and forth down the next long wall. 

Eventually, they have to split up, after a few dances together.  It’s not polite to dance only with one’s companion at these sort of functions—the point is to mingle and make small talk with everyone else. 

“Good luck,” Yuuri says, and Phichit sighs. 

“I guess I’ll make polite conversation around the first of my twelve éclairs,” he says, and turns toward the snack table.  Yuuri watches him go for a moment, then lets himself be drawn back onto the dance floor by Princess Sara Crispino.

“It’s good to see you again, Prince Katsuki,” she says, smiling as he takes her hand for a tango.  “How are you holding up?”

“I’m alright,” Yuuri says, a little surprised by both the question and the lack of any cruel intent behind it.  Princess Crispino has a reputation for being very kind, and it’s a breath of fresh air after the tentative, dangerous dance of usual courtly conversations.  “Thank you for the concern.”

“Of course!”  She smiles as he leads a simple back corté to turn the corner, a little caught off guard by the frankness of conversation.  “Mila told me it was… rough.  I’m glad to see you’re doing okay, though.  Are you going to be… you know, when he shows up?  Are you going to be alright?”

_That’s what I’ve been preparing for,_ Yuuri doesn’t say.  He came here in the hopes that Viktor would show up, and yesterday Christophe told him he specifically requested the new king’s presence, hoping to get to the bottom of things.  Apparently, Yuuri isn’t the only person that Viktor has decided to cut ties with recently.

“Yes,” he says aloud, twirling her out to promenade position.  He waits until they’re back in closed to add, “I’ll be fine.  I want to talk to him, actually.  Again, though, thank you very much for the concern, Princess Crispino.”

“You don’t need to thank me!” Princess Crispino assures him kindly.  “You’re a good friend to my Mila.  Of course I’d be concerned!”

_My Mila._ So they’re still doing well together.  Yuuri is glad to hear that, on the one hand, but on the other, he has to admit it strikes a little wistful pang in his heart.  If only he and Viktor…

No, that is a road that doesn’t bear going down.  The what-ifs and maybes of their situation don’t help anyone.

“Still, I appreciate it,” he says stubbornly.  Princess Crispino flips her hair as they go through a reverse turn.  “It’s kind of you to ask.”

Eventually, Yuuri hands her off to another partner—it’s Queen Yang-Leroy of Borealia, here with her husband the King, who Yuuri has to make sure he greets at some point tonight—and makes his way to the refreshment table, wanting a drink.  He spots Phichit being twirled about the floor by Prince Giacometti, both of them obviously having quite the fun time, and smiles to himself, then keeps walking.  He’s almost to the table when a familiar presence makes itself known, and he whirls around just in time to see—

“Katsudon!”

“Yura!” he cries joyfully, hurrying forward to sweep the boy into a tight hug.  It’s returned equally tightly; Yuri’s fingers dig into his back, clutching at his ceremonial robes.  “I was hoping I’d see you here!”

“Of course I’d be here,” Yuri huffs, pulling back enough to frown up at him.  “Beka has to come, and it’s not like I’d just stay behind.”

“I know,” Yuuri laughs, “I just meant—well, I was looking forward to seeing you again, that’s all.”

Yuri softens.  “Yeah,” he says.  “I … guess I was, too.  Sort of.  I missed you, you jerk.”

Yuuri gives him another little squeeze before letting go, the familiar sadness of thinking of his last days in Ruthenia rising in his chest again.  “If it had been up to me, I wouldn’t have left.”

“I know,” Yuri mutters.  He shakes his head.  “Anyway.  You should dance with me.  You owe me that much, for leaving.”

Yuuri snorts.  “I thought you just said you knew I didn’t make the choice to leave,” he says. “But sure, I’d love to dance with you, Yura.  Just let me get some water or something first, please.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, take your time,” Yuri says, nudging him in the side playfully, and Yuuri’s breath catches in his throat because of how familiar it is to stand around in an opulent ballroom and exchange banter with Yuri Plisetsky.  He misses this, misses things as they were last month so much it’s like a physical ache in his chest.  Now, he feels like he’s excruciatingly distant from the people he spent a year getting close to. 

He leans down for just a moment to press a lightning-fast kiss to the top of Yuri’s head.  “I really did miss you, you know,” he says fondly, and pulls away to walk to the refreshment table.  Yuri splutters in his wake.

“Wh—hey, you can’t just _do_ that and walk away!” he complains, following at Yuuri’s heels.  “God, you mushy Katsudon.  I already said I missed you too, now let’s get _on_ with things!”

Yuuri laughs again.  It feels like the weight on his shoulders has lifted, if just for a few moments, and while he knows it’s up there somewhere, waiting to crash back down on him and drown him in worry and fear, right now he feels good.  He takes a long drink of his water, smiles, and offers his arm.

“May I have this dance, Prince Plisetsky?” he asks teasingly.  Yuri swats him.

“ _I’m_ leading,” he says crossly.  “Come on, Katsudon.”

As they head to the floor, Yuuri loops his arm around Yuri’s shoulders and pulls him close again.  He can tell Yuri is about to protest that they’re going to _dance,_ dammit, so he leans his cheek against the boy’s hair and murmurs softly, “I need to talk to you about Viktor.  It’s important.  After this dance, come aside with me,” before he pulls away, smiling as if all he said was more mushy-gushy Katsudon nonsense.

Yuri blinks up at him once, twice, then nods.  Then he grabs Yuuri’s hand.  “Waltz with me!”

Yuuri laughs.  “You’re leading, start us off and I’ll follow!” he says, and for the moment, he lets himself get swept up in the music once more.

Elvetia’s annual ball is one of the highest-profile events of the year.  Attendees are almost entirely limited to royalty, save for a few attendants and highest-ranked Elvetian nobles, and thus the ball has gained a reputation for being a great place to network, to the point that being socially awkward and hanging out in a corner can be seen as snubbing fellow guests.  That’s part of why Yuuri never wanted to come, in the past.  He figured his anxiety would just get in the way and keep him from representing Hinomoto properly, especially alone and so far from home.

But after being in Ruthenia for the past year, that’s… sort of changed.  He can still feel the anxiety somewhere in the pit of his stomach, ready and waiting for a chance to rise up and strangle him, bubbling up every time he sees someone’s gaze linger for too long on the scar on his cheek, but he feels more comfortable in his own skin, especially out here on the dance floor. 

And he’s here for a greater cause.  Every time he feels himself faltering, he just reminds himself of his poor, darling Vitya—

“Are you moping?” Yuri asks, frowning as they twirl down the long wall.  “We’re at a fucking party, Katsudon.”

“I was just… thinking,” Yuuri defends, a little sheepishly.  “I mean… you know.  He’s acting weird.”

“He’s gonna be here,” Yuri says.  “I’m a little surprised he’s not in here already.  Maybe he’s waiting to make a dramatic entrance.  Sounds like something he’d do, right?”

“Sounds like something the Vitya we know would do,” Yuuri agrees, frowning slightly.  “But he’s not really acting like himself.  He—he broke up with me, you know.”

“Yeah, it was something like international news,” Yuri agrees sarcastically.  “I noticed.”

“No—I mean—again.  Over text.”

The response is immediate.  “What the fuck?”

Yuuri huffs out a little sigh.  “I was asking how he’s doing and trying to make sure he’s okay at least, and he said he wanted me to stop and wanted us to have a purely professional relationship, just like that.  Out of the blue.  It doesn’t—I don’t think he actually would have said that to me, but…”

Yuri’s hand on Yuuri’s back smacks him lightly.  “Don’t you dare add a fucking but in there.  Don’t you _dare_ force me to remind you just how head-over-heels that idiot has always been for you.  Because I’ll do it, but I will step on your feet for every word you force me to say.”

Yuuri laughs in spite of himself.  “No, I know, I know, it’s irrational self-doubt there.”

“Yeah, because like hell he’d just dump you out of his life,” Yuri huffs.  “He might think he doesn’t deserve you, but he’s not selfless enough to actually get rid of you.”

Yuuri bites his lip.  “That’s why I’m so worried, Yura.  He’s not safe.”

Yuri gives him a funny look.  “What do you mean?”

Yuuri reaches out to him with a gentle empathic probe, sending a little of his worry and discomfort.  Yuri’s eyes narrow in response.  “Not here,” Yuuri murmurs.  “After this dance, let’s go talk in private.”

“Can I bring Otabek?” Yuri asks.  “I’ve been telling him about … about whatever the hell is going on, not like I actually have any idea what that is.  I don’t know.”

Yuuri hesitates.  “How much do you trust him?”

He’ll evaluate the Crown Prince of Qazrazi on his own terms, too, just like he did with Christophe, but Yuri’s judgment still means something to Yuuri.  It takes a lot to get on the prickly little prince’s good side, and he knows Otabek Altin has been a close confidant to Yuri in the past.

“With a lot,” Yuri admits.  “He wouldn’t want to do… yeah.  He’s a good guy, Katsudon.”

“Glad to hear it,” Yuuri says.  “We can bring him, then.  Phichit is here with me, too—he already knows what I want to tell you.  I can ask him to make sure nobody overhears what we’re talking about.”

Yuri gives him another funny look, this one even more discerning than the last.  “You brought your pet shadow assassin dude?”

“He’s my best friend, not my pet,” Yuuri says drily as they twirl through a set of consecutive spin turns.  “And yes.  I’m very serious about this, Yura—there’s a lot going on here, and we all need to be very careful.  I don’t want to see you getting hurt.”

Yuri is quiet.  Then he scoffs.  “As if,” he says.  “I can take care of myself!”

“Normally, I would agree with you,” Yuuri says softly, pulling the boy a little closer in frame, “but I think Vitya would have said the same about himself, and look at him now…”

Yuri makes a soft sound of question or perhaps of protest, Yuuri isn’t really quite sure which.  But he doesn’t say anything further, so they finish out their waltz in silence.

Afterwards, Yuri grabs Yuuri’s arm and hauls him through the crowd until they find Prince Altin, who is apparently talking to King Leroy about Borealian exports.

“Hey, Beka,” Yuri says, cutting in.  He spares a quick glance at King Leroy, nodding stiffly.  “Sorry to break this up, but I need to talk to you for a minute.”

Prince Altin glances back and forth between Yuri and Yuuri, then to King Leroy, and finally nods once.  “My apologies, Your Majesty,” he says politely.  “Maybe we’ll continue this discussion later.  I hope you enjoy the rest of the festivities.”

“And the same to you!” King Leroy chortles, grinning broadly.  “Have a great time, Highness.  Though I doubt it’ll be as great if you’re not talking with us from Borealia!”

He grins even wider, as if his joke was hilarious instead of just mildly conceited, and to be polite, Yuuri offers a slight chuckle.  He can practically see Yuri vibrating from resisting the urge to roll his eyes and make a snappy retort. 

“See you around, King Leroy,” Yuuri says smoothly, before Yuri can say anything. “Sorry for stealing your companion!”

They part ways, and Yuuri mentally reaches across the ballroom until he finds Phichit’s consciousness, giving him a little prod.  The resulting spike in alertness has Phichit looking around the room for him, almost like a prairie dog sticking its head up and peeping about, until his best friend spots him and starts making his way over, leaving Christophe behind with the representative from Vespuccia. 

Except Christophe, apparently, does not want to be left behind, because he disentangles himself from that conversation to follow Phichit, and the Vespuccian boy—Leo de la Iglesia, that’s his name, Yuuri knows, though he’s never spoken to him personally—turns to ask the Zhōnghuán Prince Ji to dance.

“What’s up?” Phichit asks immediately, as soon as he’s close by.  He glances over Yuri and Prince Altin, giving both of them a winsome smile, but his attention is clearly on Yuuri.

“Why, Yuuri!” Christophe drawls behind him, coming over to drape his arm around Yuuri’s shoulders.  “Goodness gracious me, are you stealing all the handsome men in this room to gather around you over here?”

He adds a saucy wink at Phichit on the word _handsome_ , and Phichit grins, flapping his hand in an “oh, you” gesture.  Yuuri raises both eyebrows.  Where is Rika when he needs someone to commiserate with?  (She was standing along the side of the ballroom and talking to one of Christophe’s retainers, a somebody-Hirsch if Yuuri recalls correctly, last time he saw her.  It’s a pity she’s not hearing all this.  Yuuri hopes she’s enjoying herself.)

Yuri, who is apparently _not_ enjoying himself whatsoever, groans very loudly.

“Don’t you even _start,”_ he says, prodding Christophe in the chest with a finger.  “I’ve had enough secondhand exposure to you through Viktor to last me an entire _lifetime_ , and then some.”

“Now, now, Prince Plisetsky, that’s a little rude, don’t you think?” Christophe pouts.

_“Enough,”_ Yuuri says, feeling a little like the belittled mother in a van full of rowdy children who wants to stop all fights before they stop.  “We are going to go discuss things in private, and I meant to ask you to make sure it stays quiet, Phichit, but, um… are you joining us, Christophe?  I already told you everything I know…”

Christophe’s eyes gleam.  “Oh, yes, I’d love to join you,” he purrs.  There’s something quietly vindictive under his words, and Yuuri realizes that oh, he’s utterly _furious_ with Ivanovich and his cronies, for daring to hurt his best friend like this.  “Let’s make it snappy, though.  I’m sure Viktor will be here any minute now.”

“Why isn’t he here yet?” Prince Altin asks.  “Other monarchs have already been announced and are mingling.”

“Oh, you know Viktor,” Christophe says loftily, waving an arm as they all start meandering toward the side of the ballroom, where the curtained alcoves wait.  “Always one for a dramatic entrance, that man.”

Yuri snorts very loudly, but says nothing.

Once they’re all settled in the furthest alcove from the dance floor, with Phichit “casually” lounging outside to keep watch, Yuuri takes a deep breath, glances at Christophe, and then turns to Prince Altin.

“What I am about to tell Yura is information that cannot leave this group,” he says, keeping his voice quiet but intent.  Soft strains of music drift through the curtains, punctuating the seconds while he holds himself to his full height, shoulders back and chin up, and stares the younger prince down.  Prince Altin meets his gaze unflinchingly, nodding once.

“I understand,” he says gravely.  “Unless it somehow threatens Qazrazi’s sovereignty or her people, you have my pledge that I will not utter a word.”

Yuuri considers that statement, testing the emotions around him for any hint of guilt or untruth.  All he finds is curiosity and mild concern, and—surprisingly, but definitely in a relieving way—the urge to protect those he cares about, most particularly Yuri.  Good.

“Alright,” Yuuri says.  He turns back to Yuri, who has been watching the exchange with wide eyes.

“How come you never tried to be that intimidating when I was being a shit to you?” he asks.

Yuuri shrugs.  “I don’t really have a problem with people being rude to me,” he says.  “And I don’t think I was being really intimidating, was I?”

Yuri looks incredulous.  “I know you need glasses for everything, but seriously.  You’re that blind?”

“Now, now, children,” Christophe says smoothly.  “Let’s not deviate from the topic at hand, shan’t we?”

_“Children?”_ Yuri bristles.

“Christophe is right,” Yuuri says, before their banter can really go anywhere.  He sighs softly.  “Yura, Viktor is under a philological stranglespell.  He’s being blackmailed by Lord Ivanovich and several of his co-conspirators.  We don’t know what, specifically, they want out of this, but it’s obviously a power grab, while keeping Viktor as king to avoid suspicion or tension in the streets.  The reason he broke off our engagement and sent me back to Hinomoto was—”

And here he has to pause, has to remind himself to breathe, because it’s still just _that awful_ to think about what the alternative was, to think about what Viktor was protecting him from. 

The Queen’s death.  The possibility of war.  His own execution.

“—they were planning,” he says softly, “to frame me for poisoning the Queen.  I would be tried, found guilty, and executed, and Ruthenia and Hinomoto would dissolve into war.  It would be profitable.  War increases trade and production.  That’s what Ivanovich was planning, but Vitya—he found out.  And he stopped it.  He stopped it by getting me away from him.  And now he’s acting weirder, and I’m worried for him.  I’m afraid they might have somehow punished him for saving me, but I don’t know… I don’t know what they did to him.”

Yuri is alarmingly pale, his eyes glassy and wide.  Yuuri reaches over to him, lays a hand over his.

“Yura?”

“What the fuck,” Yuri whispers softly.  He shakes his head, then angrily scrubs at his eyes before any tears can escape.  “What the _fuck—_ and nobody _told me—_ how could this—he just—he’s just sitting there all alone with those fuckers and he didn’t even—he told _you?_ But not me?”

“No,” Yuuri says quickly, squeezing Yuri’s hand.  “I walked in and overheard a fortunately-timed conversation between him and Ivanovich.  The stranglespell is very well-constructed, Yura; he couldn’t tell me _anything,_ even though I already knew.  Any type of communication, even that of telling me something by omission, it cut off.”

Seeing Vitya, his poor Vitya, in that state had hurt.  It still hurts to think about.

“Hmm,” Christophe hums thoughtfully, something sharp in his mind.  Yuuri glances at him, but his eyes are focused on empty space.  Perhaps he’s pondering philological stranglespells.  He’s a gifted philologist—oh, maybe they can rely on his help even more than Yuuri had thought!

“I don’t like this,” Yuri mutters.  “I don’t like this at all.”

“None of us do, I assure you,” Christophe says drily.  “But it is what it is.  Viktor needs our help, because as Yuuri here has helpfully informed me, he’s apparently too much of a selfless fool to ask for it himself.”

“Figures,” Yuri mutters, finally squeezing Yuuri’s hand back.  “That idiot.”

“Yes,” Yuuri agrees.  _My idiot,_ he repeats to himself, not out loud but all the more fervent for it.  It’s not a denial, of their separation or of their tragedy or anything else, anymore.  It’s a promise.

“So what are we going to do?” Prince Altin asks, his face stoic but his eyes full of concern as he looks at Yuri.  Yuuri raises an eyebrow, both at the _we_ and the assumption that they know what they’re doing.  There’s a strong sense of loyalty in this one.  “What’s the plan?”

“Right now, the plan is to get more information,” he answers, glancing over to Christophe.  “Whenever King Nikiforov gets here, I’m going to talk to him.”

Yuri makes a quiet little sound of disgust.  “God.  Don’t call him that.  It sounds wrong coming from you.”

“Well,” Yuuri attempts, but he stops, because there’s no point in justifying it when it feels wrong to say, too.  “It does.”

“What are we doing after that?” Prince Altin asks.  “Assuming we have a plan, that is.”

“I’m going to get him in private,” Christophe interjects.  His voice stays lofty and smooth, but that sharpness is back in his eyes, fiercely protective in his own way.  “And see what I can do about that spell, depending on what Yuuri can find out.  Ideally, I’ll just strip him of it right here, but if he’s still being blackmailed on top of it, he might be in danger if he ever interacts with his own guard and Ivanovich realizes the spell has been broken.  So that, I’m afraid, we will have to play by ear.”

Yuuri sighs.  It’s all so complicated.  He just wants to save Viktor, right here, right now.  It’s good that they have Christophe on their side, though—he learned the principles of how to break a stranglespell from Minako, and that knowledge gives him a sense of security about this whole ordeal, like he _can_ help Viktor if nobody else will, but Christophe undoubtably knows more than him.  And Christophe has made it quite clear that he’s interested in helping.

“This is _bullshit,”_ Yuri growls.  “I’m going to kill that stuck-up, prissy, stick-up-his-ass good-for-nothing piece of _shit_ and make him regret even _touching_ our family.”

“Yura,” both Prince Altin and Yuuri say at the same time, and then glance at each other, surprised.

“Please be _careful,”_ Yuuri says after the brief pause has passed.  “He would’ve had me killed, he’s set this blackmail and spell plot up around Viktor, and he’s clearly got some kind of ulterior motive.  He wouldn’t hesitate to hurt you, either.  I don’t want that to happen.  And—you remember the block I taught you, right?  You should use it, all the time, if you go anywhere near them.”

“I know, I know,” Yuri mutters.  “I’m still gonna fucking kill him.”

“Not if I do first,” Christophe says, smiling wickedly.  He rests his chin on one hand, courtly smile running cold.  Yuuri glances back and forth between him and Yuri, both of them in firm agreement, the one hotly enraged and the other coolly furious.

…Really?

“Both of you, get in line,” Yuuri sniffs delicately.  

Outside, the music stops, reaching a gentle lull.  There’s a soft sound of trumpets, muffled by the charmed curtains, which must be the introduction to the next song—

The curtain moves, and all four of them jump as Phichit sticks his head in.

“Hi!” he says cheerfully.  “Are we talking about killing people?”

“Um,” Prince Altin says.  He glances at Yuri quizzically.

“Phichit,” Yuuri sighs.

“Sorry,” Phichit says, not very repentant at all.  “Anyway, heads up, the heralds just announced him.  You might want to get back out to the main ballroom.”

Anxiety flares up in Yuuri’s stomach, jittery and bright, as their group heads back to the center of the room.  _He’s here._ For the first time tonight, the reality of what’s going on hits him all over again—he’s going to see Viktor again, face-to-face, for the first time since that awful morning when he left Ruthenia.  Since that extremely odd request for pure professionalism.  He’s finally going to see him.  If all goes well, he’s going to _hold him._ And dance with him.

Oh, god, he’s nervous.  The last message from Viktor, that cold, harsh goodbye, still sits uncomfortably in his memory, resurfacing too close for comfort as Yuuri troops out of the alcove as gracefully as he can while fighting down his own nerves.  It’s a blip of the unknown, something unexplainable with all his current knowledge, and he’s scared of what it might mean.

_He loves me, he loves me, he loves me,_ he reminds himself frantically, because that morning might have been awful and sad but it was full of soft touches and gentle kisses and bittersweet words.  _He wouldn’t do that of his own volition, not without talking to me about whatever was wrong first.  He wouldn’t.  He loves me, he loves me, he loves me, he loves me!_

“Hey,” Phichit whispers, hovering just behind his shoulder.  His arm wraps around Yuuri’s waist, a gentle and comforting weight that’s present for just a moment as he offers a quick squeeze.  “It’ll be okay.”

“Thanks,” Yuuri breathes.

The grand doors at the top of the stairs swing open, and all the magical lights in the ballroom dim slightly to focus attention to the newcomer, as they always do.  It’s a little unnecessary in Yuuri’s opinion, because he would never have been able to take his eyes off Viktor anyway.

And there he is.

Yuuri’s breath catches in his throat, and his anxiety spikes again.  _There he is._

Viktor is just as beautiful as he remembers, if not more so, his hair impeccably combed and his floral, richly-embroidered suit perfectly tailored to his broad shoulders and slender waist.  Yuuri wants to run to him, wants to fling himself into those strong arms and never let go, wants to kiss him so incredibly hard…

…but he’s afraid.

A dance.  He can start with a dance.  It’s polite, if nothing else, and given that Hinomoto and Ruthenia are still working on the alliance, supposedly, he couldn’t get away with ignoring Viktor at a ball like this, even if he wanted to.

And he—he doesn’t want to.

He’s just scared.  That’s all.

Viktor descends the stairs smoothly, graceful and elegant and so painfully beautiful that Yuuri’s breath catches in his throat.  He aches to go to him, aches to hold him again, just… aches.  It’s not until he’s smiling and greeting people around him that Yuuri realizes that something is wrong.

He can’t feel Viktor’s aura.

Viktor doesn’t feel like Viktor.  Viktor feels _wrong._  

Yuuri’s heart drops from his throat to the pit of his stomach, and his anxiety skyrockets in response.  Oh, god, what have they done to Vitya?  Why does he feel—why does he feel unlike himself?  Since when has he had such a strong basic philological-and-empathic block up?  Why—what—

“Breathe, Yuuri,” Phichit murmurs, low and comforting at his side.  “Look away if you have to.  I’m here.”

“I can’t do this,” Yuuri breathes, tearing his eyes away to look imploringly at his best friend.  “I can’t.”

“You can,” Yuri butts in, scowling.  “You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for, you dumbass.  Stop telling yourself shit.”

Phichit glances back and forth between the two of them, eyebrows raised.  Then he rests his elbow on Yuri’s shoulder and grins.

“I like this kid,” he says.  “Yuuri, we’re keeping him.”

Yuri shoves him off with a disgusted yelp.  “Fuck _off!”_

It does the trick.  Yuuri can breathe again, and now he’s laughing, a soft, breathy chuckle that leaves him feeling a little bit lighter inside.  What’s he so scared of?  No matter what, it’s just Vitya.  Just his Vitya.

Something has obviously _happened_ to him, but Yuuri’s Vitya would never hurt him.  This much, he knows.

He turns back to the center of the ballroom, finding Viktor amongst the crowd without too much difficulty.  The shield is still in place, keeping him from being able to feel anything from his former fiancé, but it seems easier to deal with now.  Yuuri just looks at him, looks at him like he would have a month ago, and feels a little bit of his terror dislodge itself from his chest. 

“It’s just Vitya,” he murmurs, more to himself than to any of his companions.  Fondness crashes over him like a breaking wave.  “Just my Vitya.”

Anxiety pushed aside, at least for a moment, Yuuri takes a deep breath to build up his resolve.  In this corner, he’s surrounded by his allies—Yuri, Phichit, Christophe, and Prince Altin.  Out there, he’ll be alone… except he won’t, because he’s going directly into Viktor’s arms, if everything goes as planned, and how could he ever consider _that_ to be alone?

“I’m going to dance with him,” he announces, and before he can change his mind, he starts walking, trying to channel as much of his own grace and elegance as he can muster.  Shoulders down, chin up, steps rolling.  It seems to do the trick; people part to let him pass quite easily, and he finds himself approaching Viktor from behind just as the first strains of a [waltz](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4x5BV55z0BQ) begin to play.

Yuuri reaches out and taps him on one golden, rose-decorated shoulder.

Viktor turns immediately, and his eyes widen.  He looks taken aback.  Silly man, did he think Yuuri wouldn’t want to see him?  Yuuri smiles at him, small but inviting, and holds out his hand, ignoring the ache in his chest.

“Your Majesty,” he says, as if they’re playing a game.  “May I have the honor of this dance?”

Murmurs spread through the rustling crowd around them, people no doubt musing as to the relationship between the newly-estranged lovers.  Yuuri does his best to ignore them all, drowning them out and pretending they don’t feed the anxiety swirling in his gut.

“Of course, Your Highness,” Viktor says smoothly.  He smiles and takes Yuuri’s hand, and Yuuri has to try not to melt and fling himself into Viktor’s arms on the spot.

Instead, he follows Viktor out to the dance floor, letting him take the lead as he seems to want to.  Viktor holds him delicately, distantly, and Yuuri wonders at it, because Viktor’s arms have never once wanted to be distant from him in the past, but then they’re dancing, whirling around the floor, and he doesn’t bother to dwell on it any longer.  Perhaps he’s just worried about their image and propriety, after everything recently.

“How have you been?” he asks softly, barely audible over the music.  Viktor doesn’t look down, keeps staring over Yuuri’s shoulder into the distance like one is supposed to do in standard dances.  The corners of his mouth tug down.

“Alright,” he says after a moment, and … that seems like a lie.  “And yourself?”

Yuuri only suppresses a frown because of his years of court training.  The feeling of wrongness is back, and stronger.  Viktor’s touch feels almost clinical, like he’s touching Yuuri only because he has to, and that hasn’t decreased at all since they’ve started dancing.

“I’ve been… managing,” he hedges, suddenly wanting to guard his heart.  Why is Viktor acting like they’re strangers.  “I’ve missed you.”

“I’m sorry,” Viktor says stiffly.  “I did what I had to.”

“I know you did,” Yuuri says quickly.  “I don’t blame you for it.  You know I don’t.  But why are you pushing me away?”

Viktor’s lips tug downward again.  This time, Yuuri doesn’t quite feel the same urge to lean in and kiss him back into a smile.  What is happening?  Why does this feel so wrong?

“For my own sake,” Viktor finally says.  “It’s… selfish of me, perhaps, but I can’t keep a close relationship with you.  Not after this.”

Yuuri gapes at him for a second before he regains control of himself, nearly stumbling through a progressive chassé.  He can’t keep a close relationship after he spent a day wishing Yuuri would never leave him, and now he’s acting like Yuuri is the one being a burden on him by approaching?  What the hell is this?

“Are you joking?” he asks incredulously.  Viktor feels too stiff.  Everything about him feels stiff and wrong and off.  “I want to _help_ you, and I _told_ you that, and you did ‘this’ yourself, and you did it _because you loved me,_ and now you’re just… done?”

Viktor’s expression tightens.  “Prince Katsuki,” he says, stiffly, with his stiff arms and his stiff body and the sheer lack of love radiating from his mind.  He’s closed-off and he feels wrong, wrong, wrong, and if he wasn’t right here in Yuuri’s arms looking just like himself down to the small smattering of freckles on the left side of his neck, Yuuri would doubt that this is even _him._   “I don’t care what you think of our personal relationship or of whatever happened between us in the past.  I am telling you, right here and right now, that the only thing I am interested in with you is a purely professional relationship.  If that’s too much for you to handle, I apologize, but I will have to deal only with your sister or your parents from now on.”

Yuuri bristles at the implication that he’s not emotionally mature enough to keep a “professional” relationship, then shoves that indignance deep, deep down inside, under a layer of cool, detached apathy.

“Very well, Your Majesty,” he says, a little spiteful and a little furious and more than a little terrified, for reasons he can’t name.  The anxiety is building again, screaming at him that something is wrong, and everything in the ballroom is too loud, too bright, and too bold.  “If that is your true desire, then you shall have it.  You need not ever worry about any conduct from me that is anything but strictly professional.”

The hurting, spiteful little part of him stares Viktor straight in the eyes as he says this, hoping for a flinch or a pang of any kind of regret at the thought of Yuuri withdrawing all of his affections, at the thought of Yuuri renouncing every kiss and hug and simple touch.  For a moment, Yuuri considers stopping on the dance floor, taking the ring from its chain around his neck, and dropping it to crush it under his heel.

But Viktor doesn’t react.

“Your maturity is much appreciated, Your Highness,” he says blandly.  The ballroom presses in closer around them, until Yuuri feels like he’s clammy and terrified and pale as a sheet, ready to flee.  He can’t do this.  He can’t.  Why did he think things would be okay?  Viktor doesn’t love him, not anymore, and he doesn’t know why.  He must have done something.  This is all his fault.

Everything is spiraling and closing in on him and he wants to scream—

Viktor lets go of his hand, stepping back, and with a start, Yuuri realizes the waltz has drawn itself to a close.

“Thank you for the dance, Prince Katsuki,” he says, still bland and stiff and monotone.  “You are just as skilled a dancer as I remember.”

He turns away without waiting for a response—that could be considered a snub, the very small part of Yuuri’s mind that isn’t screaming, on fire, or falling directly to hell observes—and walks away into the crowd, leaving Yuuri standing alone.  He looks back, once, but Yuuri doesn’t catch his gaze, instead whirling on his heel and walking as quickly as he can, just—away.  He has to get _away._

The terrace doors sit invitingly on the wall, and before he really thinks about it, Yuuri is making a beeline for them, needing some space, needing some air. 

_Breathe,_ he reminds himself, walking through the crowd.  _Breathe.  Nobody is allowed to know how weak you are.  Breathe, damn you, breathe!_

He makes it out onto the terrace, barely, and finds it blissfully deserted, for the most part.  He spots a few people but feels far too fuzzy to identify them, let alone greet them, and instead just hurries off along the side of the building, until he’s close to the path into the gardens and can sink onto a bench, far enough away that he hopes nobody will see him fall apart.

“Oh, god,” he wheezes into his hands, pressing them to his face and rocking back and forth.  “Oh god oh god oh god, he hates me, he hates me, oh god…”

Why did everything about that dance feel so _wrong?_ He’s been—he’s been dreaming of this ever since Mari told him he should go to the ball!  Last night, even, he lay alone in his bed, still craving the touch of Viktor’s body draped over his own, and thought wistfully of the warmth in Viktor’s blue eyes, the strength in his arms, and the music in his laughter.

But there was no warmth in his gaze today.  What _happened?_   Was it Yuuri?  He—did he do something wrong?  He can’t think of it, he doesn’t know what he did, but oh, god, oh fuck, he probably fucked everything up, that’s all he’s good for, why would Viktor love him anyway, he’s just—he’s—

“You _loved me,”_ he sobs, wrecked and ragged, even though the tears haven’t started to fall yet.  His breath comes in heaving gasps.  Why is breathing so hard?  There's nobody around, and he's talking to thin air, but he's still terrified and overwhelmed, as if the eyes of the entire ballroom are still staring him down, unblinking, judging. “You loved me, but you—why don’t you love me anymore?  What did I _do?”_

He cries a little, swallowing his tears as best as he can, because he doesn’t want to smudge his makeup and look like a mess.  Mostly, he just rocks himself on the cold bench in the chilly night air and makes little distraught noises into his hands, only pulling them away from his face to take in big gulps of air like a man drowning in a violent storm.

He wants to go home.  He wants to go home and forget any of this happened.  Viktor doesn’t want him, doesn’t need him, doesn’t _care_ , and Yuuri was an idiot for thinking he found a deep and profound love just like that.  He’s always been a stupid, hopeless romantic.  Always!  He’s just a fool, a pawn on the chessboard of kings, and he doesn’t _matter!_

“You loved me,” he whimpers into his hands.  This time, he thinks of the softness of Viktor’s gaze in the early mornings, of the gentleness of his kisses, of the brightness of his smiles.

_I love you so, so much, Katsuki Yuuri,_ Viktor once said, clutching him so tightly that he almost couldn’t breathe _.  Whatever happens tomorrow and every day after that, just—please, please never doubt that._

How could he say something like that, and then… and then… when they finally got to see each other again…

Yuuri doesn’t understand.  How could he say something like that?

_Never doubt that,_ indeed.

“You love me,” he breathes, desperate, and clinging to hope.  A fool’s hope, maybe—the ring on its chain around his neck, tucked out of sight under his clothes—hangs with the weight of the world—but hope nonetheless, hope that he refuses to let go of.  “You love me.  Please.”

Yuuri pulls the ring out from under his robes, toying with it and rubbing his thumb over the smooth, golden surface.  It’s calming, despite everything—Viktor once kissed this ring, kissed it several times until Yuuri laughed at him and asked how come he wasn’t kissing the person _wearing_ it instead.  That was a lazy morning so long ago that it feels like it might’ve been from another lifetime.

He’s so confused.  He doesn’t understand.  Why did Viktor act so strangely?  Why is Viktor being so cold to him?  Why doesn’t he feel like _Viktor?_

He isn’t sure exactly how long he sits outside, anxiety roiling in his stomach a hair’s breadth from clawing its way up his throat again, ready to strangle him.  It’s probably a good few minutes.  It’s calming, out here in the late autumn chill, where the sounds of the party are distant and the wind blows right through him.  It’s peaceful.

_Oh, Vitya,_ he thinks, staring up into the night sky.  _I miss you so much._

He misses the way Viktor would wrap him in blankets and hugs, would smooth his hair away and kiss his forehead and reassure him that things would be alright.  There’s nothing he wants more, right now, than to slump weakly into Viktor’s chest and be held and allowed to lower his walls and be weak, tired, and sad.  What he wouldn’t give for that again…

A presence approaches.

Startled out of his thoughts, Yuuri jumps and then quickly rearranges himself on the bench so his posture isn’t so sad, vulnerable, and scared.  He can’t afford to look like that in front of someone he isn’t emotionally close to.  What if it’s one of the Borealian monarchs, or maybe Prince Ji or someone?  He has to have a good image!

He can hear soft footsteps against the stone of the terrace now, slowly approaching.  Someone must be taking a walk.  Maybe he’s not the only one who had to flee the ballroom.

The person draws nearer still, and recognition hits Yuuri like a splash of cold water to the face.  It’s the same harsh mental walls, the same unfamiliar blocks, the same… unfamiliarity.

Viktor.

His anxiety stabs its talons into his throat and climbs a little higher.

“Oh,” Viktor says, sounding surprised when he comes closer.  “Prince Katsuki.  I didn’t expect to see you out here.”

“I could say the same for you, King Nikiforov,” Yuuri manages, as evenly as he can.  His voice still wobbles, a little bit.  “Are you not enjoying the party?”

“Oh, no, I am,” Viktor says.  There’s a smile on his face, but it doesn’t reach his voice.  Yuuri misses his real smiles.  “I just thought a little walk around the terraces to admire the views could be nice.  It’s a little stuffy in there, don’t you think?”

“Mm,” Yuuri hums noncommitally.  “The views are nice.”

Viktor gives him an odd look.  Yuuri looks away.  He doesn’t understand why Viktor acts so cold and then makes awkward, polite small talk a little later.  Is he trying to make up for it?  Does he think Yuuri might have been offended on Hinomoto’s behalf and not just his own personal one?

“I apologize,” Viktor says, and the stiffness from earlier has returned, if it ever really left at all.  Everything about him still feels off, as far as Yuuri is concerned.  “You must be out here wanting some privacy.  I can leave you to it.”

He turns to go.  Yuuri hesitates.

“Vitya,” he calls, uncertain and soft.  “I—I know you said—you want us to be professional from now on.  I… I can respect that, but… I just… in the name of whatever friendship we used to have, please, the katsudon is somewhere around a seven or an eight, and I… I just… I…”

_I could use your help.  Please._ He trails off, not pathetic enough to say that out loud, not now.  Not when he’s still reeling from the rejection earlier.

Viktor stops for a moment, though he doesn’t turn back around.  “My apologies, Prince Katsuki,” he says, and oh, that _hurts,_ hurts so much that Yuuri has to stifle a gasp.  He wasn’t—he didn’t expect a _third_ rejection, especially not about _this_ of all things.  “If you have need of personal assistance, I suggest you ask someone in your own retinue.”

He walks away, back toward the ballroom, and leaves Yuuri to stare after him, wide-eyed and close to tears all over again.  It takes him a solid minute or two to remember his phone is in his pocket.

Fumbling with the screen, he eventually sees several unread messages from Phichit as he presses the call button.

“Hey,” he murmurs, as soon as his best friend picks up.  “Can you, um, maybe.  I’m—I’ve been on the terrace outside, since I danced with Vity—Viktor.  Something is wrong.  More than we thought.  I think.  I—I don’t know.  Can you, um, come get me?”

“I’m on my way,” Phichit says immediately.  “Should I bring the rest of the crew, too?”

“Sure,” Yuuri says softly.  “Thank you.”

He can hear Phichit’s smile in his voice, warm in a way nothing about Viktor has been tonight, and it reminds him that even if Viktor doesn’t love him now (or does, behind several layers of something being wrong, and awfully wrong at that), there’s still other sources of warmth in his life.  That makes breathing a teeny-tiny little bit easier again.

“Anytime, Yuuri,” Phichit says softly.  “I’ll be there in just a minute.”

Yuuri sighs, presses his hands to his face, and takes a deep breath. 

It’s going to be a much longer night than expected.

* * *

“Thanks for coming with me,” Yuri mumbles, sitting on the edge of his bed.  Beka offers him one of those small, stoic Beka-smiles, hands in his pockets.

“Of course I would come,” he says.  “Your family has a lot going on.  Even before we found out everything we heard from Prince Katsuki, I would have been worried.  Now?  Of course I wouldn’t let you come back here alone.”

Yuri folds his arms around himself, scowling down at the carpet.  He doesn’t like feeling vulnerable and scared like this.  The Yuri of last month probably would have bristled at _wouldn’t let you come back alone_ , and probably would have spouted some bullshit about how he can manage himself and how he’s _fine,_ thanks, he’s not a _baby_ or something. 

The Yuri who left the ball in Elvetia, though…

That Yuri is still very, very shaken by what he learned.  Viktor’s invulnerable image has just toppled off its pedestal and _shattered._   Viktor is in real, tangible danger, and Yuri is scared of what that might mean.

“I don’t like this,” he huffs.  “God.  All of it.  I want it to just—I just want it to be _over_ already.”

It’s like he wants to run away, but at the same time he hates the thought of leaving again, not while Viktor, stupid stupid dumbass heroic Viktor, fucking moron Viktor with his stupid big heart, idiot Viktor who is _all Yuri has left,_ is in such a mess.  He can’t leave.  But everything here is terrifying.  He hates court already, he still hates being the crown prince, and he wants to go home, except that “home” is that safe feeling that court _used_ to have until Aunt Vasilisa died.

And Aunt Vasilisa died by foul play.

Because nothing in this world can be anything that isn’t fucking awful and nobody in their goddamn family can have anything nice.  Of course. 

“I know,” Beka says, coming to sit next to him.  “We’ll figure it out, Yura.  You’re not alone.”

“Maybe,” Yuri mutters.  “Still doesn’t change the fact that everything sucks ass.”

Beka lets out a dry chuckle.  “True,” he says.  “But I have faith in your ability to make it through this.”

Yeah, well… that makes one of them.

“I still don’t understand why he was acting so fucking cold to Katsudon,” Yuri says after a minute, staring at the rich patterns on his comforter.  “I don’t get it.  They used to be all over each other.  The blackmail plot made them break up, and I know Katsudon was mad at Viktor, but Viktor was just moping all over the fucking place, not being mad back.  And then they made up before Katsudon left.  Something doesn’t add up, Beka.”

“Hm.”  Beka is silent for a few seconds, tucking his hands in his pockets and tipping his head back to study the ceiling.  Yuri looks up from the blanket to stare him down instead.  “Ask him.”

“Ha!”  As fucking _if._ “I can try, but I already know that dick isn’t going to tell me anything.  He never does.  I swear, he still thinks I’m a little kid that he has to protect from the big bad mean world of grown-ups.”

“You think that’s why he wouldn’t tell you?” Beka sounds surprised.  “Odd.  I would have thought that he’d latch onto any ally that he knows is aware of his… predicament.”

Yuri shrugs moodily.  Viktor is Viktor.  It’s not like he’s predictable.  “Yeah, well, we all thought he’d latch onto Katsudon at the ball, and look how _that_ ended up.”

It ended up with all of them converging on a reticent, withdrawn Katsudon sitting out on the terrace furthest from the ballroom, alone in a patch of moonlight as he stared moodily out at the Elvetian mountains.  He was quiet and sad for the rest of the night, until that Chulanont dude pulled him back in for a couple of dances.  He cheered up a little after that.  Even danced with fucking Giacometti a few times.  Yuri had to yell at the Elvetian fucker when he tried to ply Katsudon with alcohol.

( _Did_ ply Katsudon with alcohol, actually.  And then the two of them wouldn’t stop fucking _giggling._   And dancing with outrageously pronounced hips.  It was ridiculous and awful and Yuri hated every second of it, except for the parts where he was laughing at them, which was most of it.)

But Katsudon’s sadness aside, the night did _not_ involve anyone making progress at all with regards to Viktor and the mess that is festering at the heart of Ruthenia’s court.

Which is, uh, _not fucking great._

“I could talk to him, maybe,” Beka muses.  “Of course, he might be less inclined to trust me, because he hardly knows me, so I still think you’re our best bet, but if you’d rather I do it…”

“No!” Yuri huffs.  “I’ll _do_ it, it’s just I don’t think it’s gonna work.  I’m telling you, we’re _missing_ something here.  Katsudon said, what was it, he was like, the empathic impression or whatever, he said that was wrong.  That means there’s more going on here, Beka.  Katsudon does that thing where he downplays every word that comes out of his stupid mouth, but he was really certain that Viktor felt wrong to him at the ball.  That’s gotta mean something.”

“Hm,” Beka hums again.  Sometimes, Yuri just wants to smack him, just to get him to actually _say_ the words that float around in that dense head of his.

“Hm _what.”_

“Hmm,” and now there’s a twinkle in Beka’s eye, one that means he’s quite aware that he’s being a dick and he’s doing it on _purpose._ Yuri grabs the nearest pillow and smacks him with it.

“Go _hmm_ yourself back to Qazrazi, you fucker,” he complains, doing his best to shove his best friend over.  Beka, unfortunately, has a very solid build and is good at dealing with his younger sister’s attempts to push him around, so he stays upright, because he has no manners.  Yuri resorts to smothering him with the pillow instead.

“Only if I get to take you with me,” comes the muffled answer.  “What do you say to that, _hmm?”_

“Go _fuck_ yourself, Otabek Altin!” Yuri laughs, and Beka laughs too, the arm he was leaning on buckling, and both of them go tumbling against the side of the bed, where they promptly fall off and land on the floor with a _thump._   “Ow.”

Beka gives him an unimpressed look.  “You landed on top of me.”

“Yeah, and you’re a bony piece of shit,” Yuri returns easily, sitting up and folding his legs under himself.  “My carpet is soft, so you had the easier landing.”

“This bony piece of shit begs to differ,” Beka says drily.  Yuri reaches for the pillow to smack him again, but he catches it this time and grins ever so slightly, like he’s issuing a challenge.

“Are you trying to start a pillow fight?” Yuri asks.  “Because this is how you start a pillow fight.”

Beka snorts.  “Are you ready to lose a pillow fight?”

“You _fucker,”_ Yuri hisses, because he can _never_ turn down a challenge, and Beka, terrible excuse for a best friend that he is, definitely already knows that.  “Fine.  Fine!  You wanna get your ass handed to you on your first day in Ruthenia, that’s _your_ fault!”

“I’m terrified,” Beka says, even more drily than before.  “Yura, there’s an angry kitten threatening me.  Please, keep me safe.”

“I am going to light you on fire,” Yuri grouses, swatting his shoulder playfully.  “Why are you like this?”

Beka shrugs, a small smile playing about his lips.  Yuri frowns.  How does he manage to make a little smile look more serious than his dry, deadpan stare from a moment ago?  Is this a Crown Prince trick?  It’s probably a Crown Prince trick.  Small, serious smiles.  It sounds like a Viktor thing, for sure.  Maybe Yuri should figure out how to pull that off.

“Well,” Beka says, and there’s an oddly fond look in his eyes now, “I wanted you to smile for a few minutes, maybe.  You’ve been very… stressed.  And worried.  With good reason, of course, but… I like it better when you’re laughing.”

Yuri stares at him, flabbergasted.

“You can’t just _say_ stuff that cheesy out of the blue,” he complains, flopping against Beka’s side for a minute.  Beka pats his head, and Yuri sits up properly again, rolling his eyes, though not without a degree of fondness himself.  “God.  You sap.”

“I try,” Beka says, droll as can be.

Silence falls, comfortable and companionable, and Yuri sighs.  This is sort of how life was in Petersburg Palace before Aunt Vasilisa died.  The air wasn’t quite so heavy and oppressive, hanging over his head like a cloying fog trying to choke him, trying to drown him.  Life was just… better.  Lighter.  Happier.  It felt a little like this.  For a moment, he actually did forget about Viktor and Viktor’s stranglespell.

The mirth fades.  The pressure returns.  Yuri slumps against the side of his bed and groans, pressing a hand to his face and dragging it down slowly.

“ _Ugh,”_ he mutters.  “I hate this place.  God.  Beka… what are we gonna do?”

Beka ruffles his hair, and Yuri swats his hand away out of habit more than anything else.  Viktor used to do that to him all the time.  “I still think trying to talk to Viktor might help.  I don’t know of anyone else who would know anything.  Unless you can get in touch with Duchess Baranovskaya.  She might.”

“I would normally know how to reach her,” Yuri huffs, “but apparently she’s away on urgent family business and is not to be disturbed.”  He sighs and closes his eyes.  “Maybe… well, Mila’s in town.  I _guess_ we could talk to her.  I trust her.  Maybe she has some idea of what to do.”

“That’s a good thought,” Beka agrees.  “Why not just tell her to come here and join us on the floor?”  He pauses, then looks a little alarmed.  “Wait, I shouldn’t greet members of your court on the floor.  That would be improper.”

Yuri actually laughs aloud, already reaching for his phone.  “Stay right the fuck there, Beka,” he says.  “It’ll make it a more memorable meeting when she gets here.”

Beka gives him a long-suffering look.  “If you say so.”

And yet, a few minutes later, when there’s a sharp knock on the door, Beka gets to his feet even faster than Yuri does, standing up straight and respectable.  He follows Yuri out to the sitting room, hovering slightly behind him as he pulls open the door.

“Yo, Babacheva,” he greets.  Mila slips inside, and he locks the door after her.

“Hi, Prince Yuri,” Mila says drily.  She catches Beka’s eye and smiles.  “Hi, Prince Altin.  Has this little brat been giving you too much trouble?”

“No,” Beka says, but neither of them is really paying him attention.

“Hey, you dick!” Yuri glares, swatting her arm.  She just laughs and ruffles his hair, dancing out of reach before he can bite her arm or something.  “That was uncalled for!”

“What?” she asks playfully.  “I was just inquiring as to the well-being of our guest, Yuri!  You should know by now, even if you yourself don’t like to practice hospitality, the rest of us try to.”

“Not Viktor,” Yuri mutters before he can stop himself.  Viktor’s been avoiding him.  He said a few words to Beka out of politeness, but other than that, he’s been avoiding both of them.

Mila stops.  The levity drains from her face, and she sighs, settling onto his couch.  “So you think he’s acting weird, too?”  She sighs.  “I’m worried about him, Yuri.  He doesn’t seem like himself lately.  I don’t know if it’s just grief eating at him, or…”

“He’s under a stranglespell,” Yuri blurts out, because he trusts Mila, even if she is a sassy old hag of a courtly lady.  She’s like… a big sister, maybe.  Not that he’d ever tell her that.  But he trusts her with this, implicitly and absolutely.  “He broke up with Katsudon because he found out there was a plot to frame Katsudon for—for poisoning Aunt Vasilisa, and he got stranglespelled so he couldn’t bring it to light, so he just got Katsudon out of here before they could force him to execute him instead.”

Mila stares at him like he’s grown a third leg.  Her face is pale, her eyes wide, and one of her hands slowly goes up to her mouth.

“Oh,” she says softly.  “Oh my god.  Who… what?  _How?”_

“Yeah,” Yuri agrees, because _oh my god_ is right.  He plops down on the couch too, and Beka follows suit wordlessly, sitting all elegantly and properly on one of Yuri’s armchairs.  “It’s Ivanovich and his cronies.  That’s who did it to him.  Katsudon found it out right before he left.  He told me about it at the ball in Elvetia.  Apparently he and Giacometti wanted to get the spell off Viktor then and there, but Viktor avoided them.  Katsudon said he didn’t feel like Viktor.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mila asks quizzically, and Yuri stops.  He blinks once, then twice.  Wait a minute.

“Wait,” he frowns.  “Katsudon never told you about his magic?”

It’s Mila’s turn to blink, all slow and confused.  “I asked him once, and he said he preferred not to really talk about it.  Why?”

“He’s an empath,” Yuri says, because sorry but this is a little bigger than Katsudon and his personal preferences.  Besides, he also said a big part of why he didn’t tell people was because Aunt Vasilisa told him not to, and while yeah her logic about it being more useful if people don’t know is sound, once again, Yuri trusts Mila.  And anyway, the game has changed since Aunt Vasilisa told Katsudon that.  “And he said Viktor felt wrong.”

Mila blinks again.  She sits silently for a few heartbeats, obviously just trying to take everything in, and then slowly shakes her head.  Yuri waits, kind of impatiently, for her to get with the program.

“That’s… wow,” she finally breathes.  “There’s a lot going on here—god, I feel so bad for leaving him alone to go see Sara,” she admits, looking a bit distraught.  “He’s been dealing with _that,_ and we all just up and left right after Yuuri did…”

Beka speaks up for the first time since Mila got here.  “There’s no sense in feeling guilty about what happened before you knew about it,” he says, calm and logical.  “What’s important is that we figure out what we need to do next.”

“We need to figure out what they want from the crown,” Mila says, shifting gears into something much more analytical.  “Hmmmm.  And you said we don’t know what they’re planning to do, specifically, other than that they’re interested in going to war… That’s concerning.”

“And we don’t know why Viktor didn’t feel like Viktor,” Yuri adds, because everyone seems to be glossing over that fact but it’s important, dammit, he knows it.  Katsudon knew it, too.  God, Yuri wishes Katsudon were still here.  He has a feeling Katsudon would know what to do.

“I can… um… hm… I could try asking around court,” Mila finally says, thoughtful and hesitant.  “I was planning to do that anyway—oh.  Oh, wow.  Hey… I don’t know if you ever found out, Yuri, but—okay, hold on, pardon me, but… Prince Altin, are you just joining in for the ride, or…?”

“Yura is my friend,” Beka says simply, “and beyond that, Qazrazi would like to keep good ties with Ruthenia.  I want this to be resolved well, yes.  But I’m mostly here as support.  I want to help.”

“Helping people is kinda his thing,” Yuri adds, snorting.  “Just go with it, Babacheva.  What were you saying that I didn’t find out?”

Mila takes a breath, blows it out, and rakes a hand through her hair, distracted and a bit frazzled.  “A while ago, I heard… I heard Ivanovich and Petrov talking.  They didn’t know I was there.  They thought they were in total privacy.  But I heard them talking about some kind of plot to keep Viktor from getting to the throne and also to influence you.  It apparently involved some kind of really fancy blood magic?”

Beka sits up a bit straighter, his eyes narrowing.  “Blood magic?  What kind?”

“I don’t know!”  Mila shakes her head.  “I can ask around in court.  I mean, not outright, but… I could pull the right strings.  People might tell me things.”

“That sounds dangerous as hell,” Yuri mutters, trying to be as derisive as he can to disguise the fact that his blood just ran cold at the thought of Mila putting herself in situations that might end in something sticky and messy and scary.  He can’t lose someone _else,_ and lying in a court like Ruthenia’s is… not very safe.

“High stakes, high reward,” Mila shrugs, but her eyes are glinting.  “Don’t worry about me, Prince Yuri.  I can play the game.”

“I’m not worried,” Yuri huffs, because he would never worry, he just… doesn’t… want the people he cares about getting hurt.  That’s all.  He’s allowed to be defensive about that.  “I just think you doing something stupid and getting yourself caught in a lie would be lame as hell.”

“Well, then I guess I have to make sure I don’t do anything stupid,” Mila says cheerfully.  There’s a hard, sharp edge just under the surface of her voice.  “Viktor is my king and my friend.  Whatever they’re doing to him, I have a personal vendetta against them for it.”

“Well said,” Beka comments.  He claps three times.  “It’s brave of you.  Well said.”

If Mila’s planning to go snoop in court, she’ll have to lie and pretend that she’s cutting ties with the Nikiforovs now that Aunt Vasilisa is gone.  That sounds dangerous.  She’ll be fraternizing with Ivanovich’s gang.  _That_ sounds dangerous.  What if they put a stranglespell on her, too?  She wouldn’t be able to tell anyone about it!  She’d be in the exact same boat as Viktor!

“Don’t be an idiot,” Yuri says, when it becomes clear that they’re waiting on him to say something.  “I still just think we’re missing something.”

“We probably are,” Mila agrees.  “That’s why I want to find things out.”

“Please don’t be an idiot,” Yuri reiterates, rolling his eyes.  “Don’t get caught, Babacheva.”

“Aw, you said please!” she cooes, clasping her hands together.

Yuri stares at her, unimpressed.

Mila softens a bit and shrugs, then winks.  “You know me,” she says, tossing her head and tucking her hair behind her ears.  “Always careful.”

Yuri snorts.

* * *

Viktor, the motherfucker, is _avoiding_ him.  Yuri is so beyond done that he almost doesn’t care about the spells or the blackmail or any of it.  He’s making all of their lives so needlessly difficult by avoiding everyone who could help him!  Ugh!

Irritated beyond belief, he stomps half the way to the King’s study before he realizes that if Viktor is avoiding him, the guards will just politely-but-firmly turn him away, no matter how urgently he protests.  If the King is “indisposed”, fuck him, then he won’t see any visitors.  Because bullshit.  Ugh.  Ugh.  _Ugh!_

He turns sharply on his heel and marches back the way he came, heading back to the residential wing.  There’s a private library, accessible only to the royal family, this way, and that’s where the secret passage to the King’s study is.  Yuri has known about it all his life, used to sneak through and watch, wide-eyed, as Aunt Vasilisa would deliver verbal smackdowns to petitioners from court who wanted diversions of funding for sleazy corrupt affairs.  Watching Aunt Vasilisa handle her court was always awesome.  She was so… invincible.

Except she was most definitely _not_ , in the end.

…Anyway.

Pushing those thoughts aside, Yuri heads to the back corner of the library, rolls the one movable bookshelf aside, and presses the crack in the brick that triggers the trick switch.  The wall opens, silent and smooth. 

There’s residual magic flickering about it, like the feel of the spells in the dungeons but much weaker, and he knows this passageway is safe.  The palace protects its own.

(And then he remembers Aunt Vasilisa, and he’s not so sure of that anymore.)

But that’s not something to dwell on, so he moves a little faster, thinking of Viktor and his stupid “I’m-going-to-avoid-everyone” ass instead.  If he’s angry, there’s no room left to be sad.  The anger just burns it up.

He closes the passage door behind him, then holds out his hand.  He doesn’t need a flashlight when he has sparks.

A steady flame burns bright in his palm, all warm and cozy like a curled-up cat, and he walks quickly down the steps in the stone passageway.  It’s not like the hallways, where the floors are made of smooth, time-worn marble that’s polished to a gleam, or where in other parts of the building there’s dark, dark granite.  These steps are worn, yes, but not to the same degree (they’re a bit uneven), and they’re certainly not polished.  Most of the passageways in the palace are full of dust and cobwebs.  Almost nobody uses them.

Viktor showed Yuri this one, a long time ago.  He’d been tiny, back then, small enough that he had to reach up to hold Viktor’s hand and toddle after him with big, starry eyes, sure that his ethereal cousin with hair like the moon knew everything there was to know.  God, he was such an idiot, looking up to Viktor like that.  Viktor’s a fucking moron.  Viktor doesn’t know what he’s doing.  Viktor’s just a big, noble dumbass. 

That’s… not giving him enough credit, and Yuri knows it, but it’s easier to think that than it is to acknowledge what odds Viktor is up against, to acknowledge the magnitude of the struggle he’s been putting up, to acknowledge what _Yuri_ is going to be fighting, now that he knows it’s there.  Thinking about that is terrifying, even if he only can admit that he’s scared when he’s alone in the dark, with safety and secrecy and an open flame.

Viktor is an idiot.  Yuri has to do better than him.  He can’t fall into the same trap.

He takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly, standing in front of the exit to the passage, the one that comes out in a wall in the study.  There’s a peephole, carefully disguised in the decorative molding, presumably so that someone on the inside of the passage can be sure that nobody on the outside will see them open it if there are unfriendly eyes in the study, and Yuri stands on the tips of his toes to see through it because the fucking architects of this _fucking_ building were way too fucking tall, and he will never forgive them in his entire life.

There’s nobody here.  Huh.  Maybe Viktor’s in his quarters?  But the guards said he wasn’t…

It occurs to Yuri that maybe Viktor told the guards to just _lie_ to him so that Viktor could continue avoiding him like he’s been doing, and for a moment he sees red.  That _motherfucker._ Yuri cut his vacation to Qazrazi short for him, and _this_ is what he gets?

“Alright,” he growls out loud, shoving the door to the study open. 

He steps out of the passageway, almost slams it behind himself before stopping, closes it carefully to make sure it clicks back into place and locks properly, and then glares as fiercely as he can at the empty chair behind the King’s desk.  The flame in his hand grows in response to his anger, until he snuffs it out before he accidentally lights something up.

“Alright, you utter _dipshit,”_ he mutters, continuing to glare at the offending lack of Viktor in this room.  “You have to get your useless ass back in here at _some_ point.  I have fucking time.”

He crosses the few steps from the back of the study to the desk, sprawls himself across Viktor’s chair, and allows himself a few moments of pure satisfaction as he imagines the shock and dismay on his cousin’s face whenever he finally gets in here and finds that Yuri is waiting for him.  In his own seat, no less.  That’s gonna be satisfying as _shit._

Huh.  This chair is actually more comfortable than it looks.  This is the main study, so everything is directed at making the occupant of the desk look like the powerful focal point of the room, kinda like the main hall where the throne is and where court is held.  The throne is really uncomfortable—Aunt Vasilisa once scooped him up when he was little enough for that, sat him down in it, and let him try on her crown, laughing while Viktor complained that he was just a baby.  It was uncomfortable as hell.  All right angles and shit.

But this desk chair, while still very upright, has a nice seat cushion.  That’s chill.  And the armrests are padded, too.  It’s all upholstery and intricate woodcarving, as opposed to the velvet-and-gold monstrosity in the throne room.  Which is cool.  Yeah.

…This is gonna get real boring if Viktor takes forever.  And he’s _already_ thinking about chairs, of all things.

“Ugh,” Yuri groans aloud, but not too loud, because he doesn’t want the guards on the other side of the door to hear him if nobody’s supposed to be in here.  That’d tip them off that there’s a passage in here.  Like, everyone probably figures there is one, but they’re supposed to keep such rumors unconfirmed.

Well… he might as well see if there’s anything interesting to read in here, or something.

Starting with the top of the desk, which is covered in neat stacks of papers and a couple of books, Yuri examines everything.  Most of these pages are familiar—they’re drafts of bills that have yet to be introduced in court, like the ones waiting for royal approval to be debated, or they’re proposals from artisans and engineers about building projects.  A large portion of them, in two stacks because there is a lot, is devoted to the financial details of the celebratory ball for the King’s birthday in a few weeks. 

Boring.  Sheesh.  Does Viktor seriously not have anything interesting in here at all?

Yuri pulls open one of the [drawers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qRrVc5_dnMk) and stops, his breath catching in his throat.  There’s a framed photograph of Katsudon in it, and it might be just lying there now, but he can almost imagine Viktor placing it ever-so-delicately into the drawer, smiling the tiny, fake, sad smile that’s the only one he’s smiled since his mother died.  Yuri picks it up carefully, looking at it with wide eyes.

In the picture, Katsudon is laughing, Makkachin in his lap.  His head is tipped back and his eyes are closed, and he’s sitting in the dappled sunlight under a tree in the gardens, by the looks of it.  His hair is a little mussed, and there’s a white flower precariously tucked behind his ear.  He looks… really happy.

There’s a lump in Yuri’s throat, swelling and hurting before he even realizes that he’s about to cry, looking at this picture in its delicate silver frame.  Oh, _god,_ he’s not the only one who just really, really misses how things used to be—

The picture slips and falls from his loosened fingers almost in slow motion.  He lunges after it in horror, biting back a curse as his knee slams into the underside of the desk, but he’s too late. 

It hits the floor, corner first, and even though it ends up face-down, Yuri _knows_ he heard the telltale _crunch_ of cracking glass.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathes, heart pounding.  His knee throbs, but he ignores it to scramble out of the chair and pick up the picture with shaking hands, begging despite what he already knows _please don’t be broken please don’t be broken_ as he kneels and turns it over, and…

…and sees the huge, jagged crack across the entire frame.  A piece of glass slides out and thumps onto the rug, leaving the other pieces in the frame, a web of spindly cracks stretching out over Katsudon’s laughing face.

Oh, god, he feels _awful._

Okay, well… first he needs to just, uh, he can rescue the picture from inside the frame, then explain to Viktor and apologize, and then he’ll get a new frame!  It’ll be fine.  Viktor might be upset, but the picture wasn’t ruined, and he’s sure that even if it was, there’s a digital copy, so… it’s fine.  It’ll be fine.

Gingerly turning the frame back over, Yuri winces as the glass shifts and another piece falls free of the frame, hitting the floor next to the first.  He twists the clasps on the back of the frame and removes the back, lifting it away carefully, and …

Huh?

There’s a paper in here, folded up and small, but covered in print.  He blinks.  He would’ve expected the sentimentality of a handwritten note, maybe, but a typed letter…?

Now, he’s not a snoop, seriously, and he would’ve just put the letter and the paper back on the desk and started cleaning up the glass guiltily, except… he sees his name.  And not just his first name—it says _Plisetsky_ , and he can’t help but be curious as to what _that’s_ doing in a sentimental letter or whatever this is, so he unfolds the paper.

_Notes on V. Nikiforov’s personal relationships,_ he reads, and furrows his brow.  What?

_Had a close romantic relationship with Y. Katsuki of Hinomoto and what appears to be a messy breakup.  Details hard to come by.  When interacting with Katsuki, be as impersonal as possible to avoid accidentally contradicting past statements.  See extra files for more information._

_Has a complicated relationship with Plisetsky.  Seem to be on good terms but not close.  Plisetsky would likely recognize idiosyncracies in behavior – be wary.  When impersonating, avoid outside of court business; Plisetsky must not be alerted until after the bill passes._

On and on it goes, talking about Mila and Georgi and Duke Feltsman and Duchess Baranovskaya and the Vinogradovs and so on and so forth, but Yuri isn’t reading anymore.  He’s staring, pale-faced and wide-eyed, at the word _impersonating._

The missing piece of the puzzle clicks into place.

No _wonder_ Viktor felt wrong at the ball, when Katsudon danced with him.  No wonder—wait, no, it wasn’t Viktor, it wasn’t Viktor at all, oh fuck, holy shit, it’s not—

The door clicks.  And opens.

And Yuri finds himself face-to-face with the man who isn’t really his cousin at all.

Not-Viktor stares at him for a moment, his eyes going wide as he takes in the broken glass and the page in Yuri’s hands.  “Oh, _fuck,”_ he mutters, and then slams the door shut behind himself and strides forward so fast that Yuri stumbles back a few steps, his heart in his throat and his arms rising defensively.

“You’re not my cousin,” he spits, even though his back is to a wall and there’s nowhere to run and he’s maybe a little bit terrified out of his mind.  “Who the hell are you?”

“Give me that,” Not-Viktor hisses, stepping even closer and demandingly holding out his hand.  Yuri clutches the paper harder, backing away again.  “You little brat, how _dare_ you come in here and start snooping—”

“I said, who the hell _are you!”_ Yuri snarls, his voice rising.  Will the guards help him if he runs out?  If he could just get to the doors and show them, they’d _have_ to, and at the very least they’d be witnesses so that Not-Viktor can’t do anything to him.  Keeping the secret passageway’s existence secret doesn’t matter, not at this point.  Fuck.  Okay.  He just has to get around him and run.

“I am the king of Ruthenia,” Not-Viktor says imperiously, “and _you will give me that, right now.”_

“Think again, asshole,” Yuri hisses.  He lifts one leg and kicks the imposter king in the knee, and the man who looks like his cousin but is _not_ his cousin lets out a pained cry, stumbling back and creating an opening.  Paper clutched in his hand, Yuri sprints past him, vaults over the desk, and tears across the rug to the door.  “Guards!  _Guards!”_

The door opens a split second before Yuri gets to it, slamming into him and sending him sprawling on the stone floor, dazed.  His cheek and shoulder and hip all sting from colliding with the heavy wood of the door itself, and his other hip stings from landing on it, hard.

Lord Ivanovich stands over him, eyebrow raised.  “Prince Plisetsky,” he says calmly.  “Is everything quite alright?”

_Oh, fuck,_ Yuri thinks.  He must have come here with Not-Viktor, they’re working together and they came to the study to discuss something or other and _oh fuck—_

The door slams shut again with a final-sounding _thud,_ and Ivanovich locks it with a very ominous _snick._

“Have a seat, Prince Plisetsky,” Ivanovich says, gesturing at the chairs in front of the desk.  He takes in the crumpled paper clutched in Yuri’s hand, the broken glass still on the floor, and Not-Viktor standing behind the desk and scowling, all in stride.  “It looks like we have much to discuss.”

“Guards!” Yuri cries again, scrabbling backwards, as if letting Ivanovich touch him might kill him.  “Guards, help!”

Not-Viktor lets out a disparaging snort.  “Stop your squealing, brat,” he says, and he sounds so hostile Yuri actually does shut up, for a brief moment, terrified.  He wants to get out of here!  “Haven’t you figured it out yet?  The guards aren’t on your side.  Since when have the Nikiforovs cared about the military future of this country, you dumbass?”

“Now, now, Sergei,” Ivanovich chides, and now Yuri has a name to attach to that horrible, horrible man wearing his cousin’s face and speaking with his voice.  “He’s still a child, and you seem to have scared him.  There’s no need to be crude or mean to him.”

“What have you done to Viktor?” Yuri demands, getting to his feet and balling his fists.  The paper, crumpled into a ball, digs into the skin of his right hand.  “Where is he?”

“None of your concern, I’m afraid,” Ivanovich says, while Sergei grins a cruel, twisted grin that looks plain wrong on Viktor’s face and says, “You don’t have to worry about seeing him again, little cousin.”

_“Don’t_ call me that,” Yuri hisses.  “It is too my concern!”

“Please,” Ivanovich says mildly, sitting down himself.  “I’m sure this looks alarming, Prince Yuri, but I assure you, everything is quite alright.  Be at peace, sit down.  Nobody in this room is going to try to hurt you.”

“I think I’d rather stand, if it’s all the same to you,” Yuri bites out.  The idea of sitting down civilly next to Ivanovich and—and _Sergei,_ asshole that he is (Yuri is sure he’s never hated someone so viscerally)—is nothing short of repugnant.

Ivanovich shrugs.  “Suit yourself,” he says, still mild and kind, like some kind of demonic grandfather that’s trying to pretend he isn’t attempting to steal one’s soul at this very moment.  “We seem to have some things to discuss.”

“Where.  Is.  Viktor?”  Yuri tries not to let his voice shake, he really does, but he doesn’t know if he was fully successful.  He’s kind of terrified out of his fucking mind, and he wants to get away from these two and _call Katsudon, holy fuck, Katsudon needs to know about this—_

“I think I’ll be doing the talking, and you’ll be doing the listening, Your Highness,” Ivanovich says smoothly, unperturbed even though Yuri outranks him.  “Not questioning, I’m afraid.  Viktor is… well, Sergei was right, I suppose.  You don’t need to worry about seeing him again.”

Ice crawls up Yuri’s spine.  Did they—is Viktor _dead?_ No.  No, they can’t—he can’t be dead, not Viktor.  He’s supposed to be strong and he knows what to do, right?  He might have been sad, but he’s still smart and he—oh, god, did they kill him?

“More to the point,” Ivanovich continues, as if Yuri isn’t shaking where he stands, whether from rage or shock or horror he’s not sure.  “You may have guessed, but just so that we’re clear on things: I am the power behind Ruthenia’s throne, now.  I realize this might be a shock, but it doesn’t have to be a bad one, Your Highness.  You can work _with_ us, Prince Plisetsky.  Help us steer Ruthenia in the proper direction—”

_“Fuck you,”_ Yuri bites out, shaking his head and taking another step back.  His entire right side is still protesting from slamming into the door, and he wants to cry from pain and confusion and anger.  Viktor _can’t_ be dead.  “I’d _never_ work with you, not after what you did to Viktor, whatever the fuck you did—how _dare_ you even wear his face, you fucking piece of garbage _fake_ , you don’t deserve it, you don’t deserve _anything_ of his—”

“Shut your profane little _mouth,”_ Sergei snaps angrily, and Yuri recoils, seeing that look of actual hatred in his cousin’s eyes.  “You and your perfect little family think you made such great kings.  But your time is _over._ You think I don’t deserve his damn face?  He didn’t deserve this _crown!_ He was weak, just like his mother, giving in to a few voices whining that they wanted change and bullshit.  He cried when we sent the assassin for him.”

“Sergei!” Ivanovich cuts in, exasperated.  “Come now, my friend.  There’s no need to let your temper get ahold of you and run.  Let’s be civil.  You too, Prince Plisetsky.  Please stop riling each other up.”

“To hell with being civil!” Yuri shrieks.  “You killed my cousin and you expect me to _work with you?!_ I’d rather die!”

A shadow crosses Ivanovich’s face.  “It is unfortunate,” he says, “that you didn’t hide those notes better, Sergei.  As it is, Prince Plisetsky is clearly very distressed.  I’m sure you wouldn’t truly prefer to die, Your Highness, but—”

“I would light my own _funeral pyre_ before willingly working with _you,”_ Yuri grinds out.  Is he terrified?  Maybe.  Is he going to give one damn inch to these pieces of shit?

Not on his fucking _life._

“That can be arranged,” Sergei mutters sullenly, more to himself than anything.  Ivanovich casts him a resigned look, then turns back to Yuri.

“Very well,” he says.  “If that is really all you have to say, then I’ll let you go.  Just one thing…”

There’s a weird feeling, a little bit like a translator spell’s mental fuzziness before it settles into place, and panic crashes over Yuri like a tsunami.  He frantically squeezes his eyes shut, remembering what Katsudon taught him—focus, focus, focus—and throws up a fortress around his mind, his heart racing.  It’s nothing complex, but Katsudon said this kind of block was strong, and general, and it would keep anyone from getting into his head.

Focus.

Focus.

Focus.

Nothing can get in.  The fuzz around the corners of his vision doesn’t matter.  It’s nothing.  It’s not real.  It can’t hurt him.

Focus.

Focus.

Focus.

He is impenetrable, he has walls of slick granite that cannot be climbed, cannot be breached, cannot be compromised.  He is a fortress.

Focus.

Focus—

“Is that so,” he hears, very vaguely.  “You know how to use a strong basic block.  Who taught you that?”

Focus. 

He will not answer, he will not break his concentration, he is a fortress.

“You’re clearly not very good at it, though, if you can’t hold a conversation while keeping it up.  That’s a pity.  I could teach you, you know.  I’m sure we could have quite an interesting conversation, if only you would drop it.  But you’re not going to do that, are you?”

No answers, only walls.  Viktor—Viktor would be proud.  Viktor was always good at shutting people out—

No!

Fortress!

Shit, that was close.  He almost slipped for a second.  That would’ve been bad, Ivanovich could’ve gotten in.  Okay.  He has to breathe—Katsudon’s voice is almost audible, reminding him _breathe, Yura, you won’t get very far if you pass out_ —and he has to focus.  He can do this.  He can do this.

“Alright,” Ivanovich says, and the fuzziness recedes, fades into the horizon, and vanishes. “A stalemate it is.  Very well.  We can do this the old-fashioned way, Prince Plisetsky.”

Yuri opens his eyes, hesitant, and glares.  He says nothing, still suspicious, ready to leap back into the safety of his mental block.  Katsudon probably just saved his fucking _life._

Ivanovich ponders for a moment, tapping his fingers on the armrests of his chair.  Then he nods to himself.  “Alright,” he says again.  “Prince Plisetsky.  I’ll be blunt, son, since you seem to prefer that way of speaking.  Ruthenia does not need Qazrazi.”

“Don’t you fucking _dare_ bring him into this,” Yuri blurts out, his fists tightening with defensive, horrified rage at the thought of Beka being dragged into this mess.  “He has nothing to do with it!”

“Such is life, Your Highness,” Ivanovich says gently.  “Innocents may need to be sacrificed for the greater good.  So it goes.  Prince Altin, I’m sure, is a wonderful person.  That bodes well for us, actually, because I’m sure that you genuinely do care for him… which makes me more inclined to believe that you will keep your mouth shut about what you just found out, unless you want him dead.”

Yuri’s eyes widen.  “No,” he breathes, unable to keep it in.  If Beka dies in Ruthenia, not only would Yuri have to live with the weight of guilt from his death being _Yuri’s fault_ for the rest of his life, but also his poor parents would lose a son, his sister would lose her brother, and… and Qazrazi would have to interpret his lack of protection in Ruthenia as a slight.  Ruthenia would be blamed for letting Beka die, which would sour relations, and Qazrazi might lose the benefits it was getting from having access to some of Ruthenia’s trade routes.

“Or, if you don’t like that option so much,” Sergei speaks up, arms folded across his (Viktor’s) chest, “we could always reuse the Katsuki plan.  Hell, if Plisetsky dies and Altin is convicted for it, Hinomoto might get pulled into war against Qazrazi by their own mutual defense clause!  Serves them right for putting that damn thing in the alliance.”

“You make a good point, Sergei,” Ivanovich says evenly, staring Yuri down.  “So.  What do you think, Prince Plisetsky?”

“You can’t!” Yuri bursts out.  He hangs his head, still burning with rage, so that they can’t see the frustrated tears in his eyes.  His vision is still swimming with horrific daydreams of blood and death and tears and war, and another funeral far too soon after Aunt Vasilisa’s, and he—he can’t do this!  “Fine.  I won’t—I won’t tell.”

If he just agrees, maybe they’ll let him out of here.  He wants to get out of here.  God.

“Good,” Ivanovich soothes.  “So long as you behave, no harm will come to Prince Altin.  You have my word.”

“Yeah, and I’m sure Viktor had your word that you’d be loyal to the crown, too,” Yuri bites out.  He will not be placated.  He’s not a fucking _child._

Ivanovich sighs.  Then he holds out his hand.  “The paper, Prince Plisetsky.  Give it to me, and you can go.”

Hands shaking, from anger and shock and horror and guilt and a thousand other horrible things all swirling together at once, Yuri drops the crumpled ball of treason into Ivanovich’s waiting palm.  Then he turns on his heel, without waiting for a dismissal, and flees the study.

* * *

The problem with being blackmailed with your best friend’s life (or… your life, but your best friend would get blamed for your death) is this:

“Yura,” Beka says, again, his voice somewhere between gentle and grave.  “Please stop pretending nothing is wrong.”

Said best friend can see right through you, and then you get caught between a rock and a hard place because you can’t _tell_ him what’s wrong, but also he deserves to know, and you feel awful for hiding and leaving him in the dark, but also _you can’t tell him what’s wrong,_ and there’s no easy way out of this, so…

Yuri curls up a little tighter, pressing his face into his knees until the bruise on his cheek hurts.  He’s got a bunch of nicely matched bruises from the door, all down the same side, and now that it’s been a couple of hours since that… incident… in Viktor’s office, they’re all developing quite nicely into purple, blotchy monstrosities against his pale skin.  Ugh.

“I’m fine,” he mumbles, voice muffled.  Beka’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder, firm and warm.

“You’re not,” Beka says.  “You won’t even tell me what happened earlier—where did that bruise come from?  Did someone hurt you?”

He’s all adorably fierce and protective, like a good friend.  God, he’s _such_ a good friend.  Yuri wants to cry, really, _really_ wants to cry, like he couldn’t in the King’s study, but that’d just make Beka worry even more, so he can’t cry here, either.  He sniffles anyway.

“I slipped,” he finally lies.  “And fell.  And hit my face on the floor.”

He doesn’t roll over, so he can’t see Beka’s face, but he can imagine that single-eyebrow-raised look of skepticism that must be being levelled at him at this very moment.  “Really.  That must have been some fall.”

“Yeah.”  Yuri nods slightly, his hair spilling over his face.  It’s dark outside his window.  Maybe if he goes to sleep, in the morning there won’t be any bruises and today will have been a big, long, bad dream.  “Embarrassing.  That’s why I didn’t wanna say it.”

Beka is silent for a long moment.  The bed shifts when he moves, sighing, and pulls his hand away from Yuri’s shoulder.  Yuri almost rolls over and clings to him, wanting to feel secure and safe and cared for, but he can’t make him worry, so he stays still, curled up into the tiniest ball he can manage.

“Yura… I know you’re lying.” 

Yuri bites his lip to hold back the tiny little pathetic sob that wants to spill out.  “N-not.”

“Yes, you are,” Beka tells him.  “If you don’t want to tell me what happened, can you at least tell me why you don’t want to tell me?”

Yuri hesitates.  Technically… they didn’t say he couldn’t… so long as the secret about Sergei replacing Viktor—oh, _god,_ Viktor—holds, it should be fine, right?  Beka already knows about the stranglespell. 

Finally, he rolls over, keeping himself curled up and tiny, and lays his head against Beka’s side, very timidly.  “Can’t tell you.  It’s… there’s… um.  Blackmail.”

Beka surges upright into a sitting position, his eyes blazing like he wants to grab a scimitar and go hunt someone down right here and now.  “ _What?_ Who? _”_

Yuri whimpers slightly.  “You know.”

Something in Beka’s face tightens.  He lets out an explosive sigh, rakes a hand through his hair, and closes his eyes for a moment.  Then he leans back down, carefully, and wraps one arm around Yuri’s shoulders.

“Okay,” he says.  “You don’t have to tell me.  Stay safe, Yura.  It’ll be alright.  I’m here for you.”

“He said—he said he’d kill you,” Yuri blubbers, the tears starting to leak out now that he’s actually talking instead of just blocking everything out.  “Like they did to Viktor—oh, _fuck!”_   Oh god he wasn’t supposed to say that, he wasn’t supposed to say that, he wasn’t—

“Viktor?” Beka asks, confused.  “He’s right down the hall, Yura…”

Yuri doesn’t answer, petrified.  He feels sick to his stomach from fear, nausea coiling its oily hands around his insides and twisting.  “I… I…”

“Yura?” Beka repeats.  He gives Yuri a gentle squeeze, pulling him closer.  “It’s okay.  You don’t have to say anything.  You’re safe here.”

“N-no, you’re—you’re the one in danger,” Yuri manages.  “I—I said it.  Oh my god, I’m a fucking idiot, I went and said it—now you _know,_ oh, god, what if they try to kill you now?  It’s all my fault, oh fuck, oh _fuck,_ Beka, you should go home, it’s—it isn’t safe here, you should—you s-should—”

And then he’s crying, because of course he is, stupid hot tears blurring his vision and streaming down his cheeks.  He hiccups and chokes on a sob in his throat and ends up coughing, then whines and scrubs at his face.  Beka hugs him.

“Yura.  Yura, it’s okay to cry,” he murmurs, brow furrowed.  “Let it out.  You’ve had a long day.  It’s okay.  Don’t worry about me.  I can take care of myself.”

“It’s my fault you’re in d-danger now!” Yuri wails.  “I’m an idiot!  I’m an _idiot_ and they killed Viktor, oh, god, they _killed him,_ Beka, he’s d-dead!”

Beka is very quiet for a long, long moment.  “What makes you say that?” he finally asks, so soft that he can’t possibly be anything but deadly serious.  Yuri sniffles pathetically and takes a shaky breath, wiping his face on his sleeve.  He can’t believe Viktor is… they… and now Beka… if only he could keep his damn mouth shut!

But he’s already gone and put his foot in it, so he might as well explain.  There’s no point in half-assing anything.

He lets out another little sob, tries to breathe again, and finally manages to say, “They—they made a fake.  Somehow.  It’s—it’s not really him, it’s some m-motherfucker named Sergei, pretending he’s my Viktor.  Th-they told me I won’t ever see—that I’ll never see Viktor again.”

Beka pulls him closer at that, until Yuri is slumped against his chest, his heavy head resting against Beka’s shoulder.  He’s tired and his eyelids are at least five tons each.  Today _needs_ to be over.  God.

“You know…” Beka starts, after a few moments.  His voice is soft and contemplative and surprisingly calm, and Yuri latches onto it.  “I… don’t mean to get your hopes up, but hear me out.  Lady Babicheva mentioned that they have a plan that involves complex blood magic.  There is… I do know of a spell that could, theoretically, create a doppelganger of a person—I’ve read a few papers on it.  I don’t know if it’s been tested for long-term viability, but… it required blood often.  From the person being impersonated.”

Yuri whips his head up so fast he nearly slams it into Beka’s chin.  “You think he might be alive?”

Beka hesitates.  “I don’t know,” he finally says, “but if I was trying to hide someone and impersonate him for a long time, I’d certainly tell anyone who might go looking for him that he’s dead, to throw them off my trail.”

Yuri’s eyes widen.

“He might be alive,” he breathes, latching onto Beka and clinging to him tightly again.  “He might be alive.  Oh my god, he might be _alive.”_

Beka doesn’t say anything, but he does hold on a little tighter.

A few minutes pass like this, and Yuri manages to stop crying eventually, though he still feels exhausted and utterly shitty.  He’s still terrified for Beka, too.  There’s no way Ivanovich wasn’t having him watched, after this afternoon.  Maybe he’s being paranoid, but he did spend a long time away from here, and he knows he can’t trust the guards.  What if there are people in the palace staff who he can’t trust either?  What if they bugged his room?

“Prince Katsuki needs to know about this,” Beka finally says, quiet and thoughtful.  He’s petting Yuri’s hair, and it’s very calming.  Yuri isn’t very awake, mostly just a tired knot of nerves and dried tears slumped against his shoulder, but he makes a noise that might be affirmative.  “You shouldn’t tell him.  I’ll do the talking myself.  You’ve had enough to worry about, Yura.”

“Mmngh,” Yuri mumbles.  Katsudon would know what to do.  If Katsudon would come back, that would be _great._ He has a feeling Katsudon wouldn’t take any shit from Ivanovich.  And if Katsudon were around, he’d feel a lot safer.  Not that he doesn’t feel safe with Beka, but Katsudon is… well, he’s _Katsudon._ He cries a lot and yet he _still_ stays powerful.  That’s something to be admired. 

“I’ll call him,” Beka says.  “I’ll go through the Qazrazin channels I’d use to talk securely to my parents.  Don’t worry about it.  You just… go to sleep, I guess.  You already are.  Oh well.”

Yuri nods his sleepy assent, sighing when Beka shifts.  He’s not entirely sure what’s going on, but then he’s lying back against some pillows, and a blanket gets pulled up over him.  But where’s Beka?

He wakes up a little, looking around with bleary, confused eyes, and sees Beka heading for the door.

“Where are you going?”

Beka stops, turning around, phone already in hand.  “I was going to go make that call.  You should sleep.”

Yuri thinks about sleeping in this room alone, knowing that he can’t trust the guards posted in the corridor if something were to happen.  Knowing that if his room _is_ bugged and Ivanovich knows that he told Beka, then Beka could be attacked tonight.  Or Yuri could himself.

He thinks about sleeping in this room alone, knowing all that, and feels his grip on the sheets tighten painfully.  “Stay here.”

Beka blinks. 

“Please,” Yuri adds, voice cracking, and apparently that’s all it takes for Beka to melt, because he sighs and turns back to Yuri’s bed.  Yuri leans over and flicks on the lamp on his bedside table, scooting aside to make room for his best friend.  This is better.  They can keep each other safe.

“You don’t mind that I’m making a call?  You’re tired,” Beka says, but he’s already clambering into the bed too, so Yuri just gives him a Look (not just a look) and flops back down onto the pillows, more comfortable this time.

Beka shrugs.  “Just making sure,” he says, and goes back to his phone.  Yuri rolls over until his searching foot brushes Beka’s leg—he doesn’t really like being held while he sleeps or anything, but physical reassurance that he’s not alone is still nice—and closes his eyes again.

He dozes off for a few minutes, only really aware of things happening when he hears his name.

“—being blackmailed about it,” Beka is saying when Yuri groggily tunes back in.  “I’m going to try to watch over him, but it is worrisome.”

“Mmph,” Yuri interjects.

Katsudon is lit up on Beka’s phone screen, his face very serious.  He softens a bit when he sees Yuri stirring and squinting at him.  “Hey, Yura,” he says.  “Sorry.  Did we wake you?”

“Yes,” Yuri says grumpily.  “You’re loud.  I feel like shit.  Stop being all the way over there.”

“Sorry,” Katsudon says, offering a wan smile.  “I’d be there with you if I could.  I’ll be there soon—I’ll be at Viktor’s birthday ball—so just hang in there for another two weeks, will you?”

“I’ll _try,_ but some people seem to want me _dead,”_ Yuri mutters.  He plants his face in Beka’s shoulder.  “I’m hoping this will have un-happened when I wake up in the morning.”

“Oh, Yura,” Katsudon murmurs.  “I’m sorry.  I wish I could just bring you over here and keep you both safe…”  He sighs, shaking his head, and just for a moment returns to looking like a serious, solemn prince, even though it’s like five in the morning and they totally woke him up with this call.  “Thank you for informing me about this, Prince Altin.  I’ll be sure to let Christophe know, too.  Yura… we’ll fix this.”

Yuri looks at him for a long moment.  “Yeah.”

“Of course,” Beka says, nodding once.  “We’ll be waiting to see you in two weeks, Prince Katsuki.  Good night.”

“Good night,” Katsudon says.  He has that soft, worried look in his eyes again, like when he left Ruthenia.  He’s like a big teddy bear or something.  “Be safe, both of you.”

“We will try,” Beka answers, somewhere between solemn and dry, and then he hangs up, puts his phone on the bedside table, and leans over to turn off the lamp.  The room plunges into darkness.

…

“Beka,” Yuri whispers.

The answer is immediate.  “Yes?”

Yuri swallows hard and bites his lip, fingers fidgeting under the comforter.  “…I’m scared.”

Beka’s hand finds his.  Yuri’s fingers still.

“I know,” Beka says.  “Me too.”

* * *

He doesn’t know what wakes him, exactly.  But he jerks awake in the middle of the night, heart pounding—was it a nightmare?  Beka is still asleep, his breathing soft and easy next to Yuri’s panicked, frozen form.  What’s going on?

Something shifts in the darkness.  He can’t see, but he _hears,_ and maybe it’s paranoia but he’s on edge and he’s scared and something is _in his room—_

On reflex more than anything else, he sits up and blindly throws out his arm, defensive, as if he wants to stop something from hitting him, summoning a flame at each fingertip so he can see.

Nothing?  There’s… there’s nothing.  He’s just scared, but there’s no reason to be.  Right?  Shit, he should go back to sleep, he probably just disturbed Beka, ugh, what is _wrong_ with him?  Although, luckily, Beka is a heavy sleeper.  He doesn’t seem very awake.  That makes Yuri feel a little less guilty, and he heaves a heavy sigh, bites his lip, and leans back, slowly, about to close his fist and extinguish the flames.

And then the shadows at the foot of the bed [ripple](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MaVEZ3-uA64).

Yuri gasps again, rubbing his eyes and letting the fire blaze brighter, but that was a mistake because in rubbing at his eyes and glancing at the lamp, he looked away from the shadows, and oh god they’re moving and _oh fuck is this what shadow magic looks like?_

“Beka,” he hisses, terror coursing through him.  The sheets are tangled and he can’t get out, can’t escape, though he starts to struggle.  “Beka!”

The shadows loom closer, and the fire doesn’t seem bright enough to stave them off, even though its heat shouts otherwise.  Yuri’s breath freezes in his throat.

There’s a flicker of movement, a flash of unfamiliar eyes reflecting the fire in his hand, and then someone has grabbed his arm and he yelps, flailing, and attempts to punch the shadow assassin in the face.  Beka sits up with alarm.

“Let me _go!”_ Yuri shrieks, tumbling out of bed as the assassin yanks him away, onto the floor.  His already-bruised hip bangs into the side table and makes him cry out again, not quite falling to the floor because the assassin still has his arm in a vicelike grip.  “Let go!”

“Yura!”  Beka throws himself at the two of them, knocking into the assassin and making them stumble back, dropping Yuri, and Yuri screams again because _what if there had been a knife, what if Beka had been hurt_ and kicks a gout of flame at the assassin’s legs. 

Fear and adrenaline course through his veins in equal measure, prompting him to throw himself into the fray or to flee—he wants to run, but he can’t abandon Beka, would never—and his fire provides light, and light is so important against a shadow assassin—if only Mila were here, with her light magic—and oh, _god, they’re going to die!_

The assassin melts into shadow, suddenly, leaving Beka scrabbling on the floor to get back to his feet.  He immediately hurries to Yuri’s side, helping him up, and stares around the room, obviously tense. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, his hand still on Yuri’s arm.  He doesn’t look down at him, reaching for the lamp instead, and then the room is flooded with dim light.  Yuri keeps the fire in his palm anyway, too scared to let it go.

“Yeah,” he answers, shaken and breathless.  There’s no way the assassin is done with them.  Shadow assassins don’t give up that easily.  No way.  “You?”

“Fine,” Beka says tersely.  He looks around the room again, breathing a bit hard.  “Shit.”

He isn’t saying it, but Yuri knows he’s thinking it: that assassin isn’t leaving until one of the two of them is dead.  The thought leaves him shaken down to the core.  They’re just somewhere, hiding in a shadow.

_Shit,_ indeed _._

He looks down at his own shadow, stretching into the darkness under his bed, and feels uneasiness twinge sharply in his gut.  He doesn’t trust it.  He doesn’t trust the nightstand’s shadow, either.  He doesn’t trust—god, he doesn’t trust any of it.

A dark shape melts out of Beka’s shadow like something from a horror movie, suddenly appearing right behind him so fast that Yuri doesn’t even have time to cry out a warning before Beka goes sprawling to the floor, shoved aside.  Those eyes glitter harshly behind the dark cloth wrapped around the assassin’s face as they advance on Yuri again.

Yuri screams.  _“Beka!”_

He wants to dive aside and run to his best friend, his heart in his throat thrumming with terror, but the assassin stands between them, and he’s cornered between his bed and his nightstand, and suddenly there’s a hand at his throat shoving him backwards to pin him down on his own bed.  His fire sputters out and he’s _choking_ and coughing and wheezing, flailing until he manages to kick the assassin in the stomach.  They gasp, but slam a fist into his knee, and he loses what breath he has in a choked cry.

There’s a sharp sting in the crook of his elbow as the assassin grabs him again, stabbing at his arm with a small knife or something before they stumble backwards, Beka bodily hauling them away from Yuri with a yell, and Yuri gasps for air, wheezing.  He falls from the bed to the floor like a broken doll just sliding down the side, feeling weak.  Is it just from lack of air?

The assassin melts into the shadows again, and Yuri tries to sit up.  It doesn’t work.

“B-Beka,” he gasps.  He feels stiff, reaching… reaching, a little bit.  His fingers twitch, his arm curving a little bit.

His body isn’t responding.  He—he can’t move his arms or his legs—not even his fingers, not even his toes, now he’s trying to talk and his mouth won’t move, _he can’t breathe, his chest is still, oh god he can’t breathe he can’t breathe—_

“Yura!” 

Beka is kneeling at his side.  He lets out a curse, looking down, and out of the corner of his eye Yuri manages to catch a glimpse of his own arm.  _Oh,_ he realizes.  Not a small knife after all—there’s a dart sticking out.  A drug.  Poison.  Oh.  He’s… dying.

He’s _dying._

_Beka,_ he wants to say, wants to cry because he’s dying and he’s terrified and he doesn’t want this but he can’t breathe and there’s black tinging the corners of his vision already and _he’s so scared oh god he’s scared_.

Beka hauls Yuri’s limp, unmoving form into his lap and places a hand over his heart, firm and strong.  Yuri can feel it even though he can’t move, can feel the tingly touch of blood magic—or is that just him losing all sensation because he’s _dying?_

There’s a very fierce look in Beka’s eyes.  He’s obviously concentrating very hard.  Maybe it’s good that Yuri can’t talk.  He’d be a distraction.

_He can’t move he can’t breathe he’s going to **die.**_

The tingly sensation grows.  It’s more like the pins and needles after sitting on a leg for too long or something, but everywhere, and it’s kind of unpleasant, and if he could complain he would, but his vision is darkening and blotchy and blurring and his chest burns because there’s no oxygen and everything is awful, and—

_Pop._

Yuri wheezes, gasping, and finds blessed, sweet air flowing into his lungs.  He can breathe.  He can breathe, the weird stiff horrible unresponsiveness is fading, he can move his body again, _he can breathe,_ oh, god, he can breathe, he can breathe…

“Yura,” Beka whispers, and Yuri looks up at him, only now realizing that what he mistook for intensity a moment ago was _terror._ “You’re okay.  You’re okay now.  Right?”

Instead of answering, Yuri just flings his arms around him and bursts into tears.

They sit on the floor for a while, clinging to each other, and both of them cry a bit (or maybe more than a bit), but in the end, Yuri lifts his head.

“Hey,” he mumbles, shaky and red-eyed.  “Th-thanks.”

Beka offers a very watery, tiny smile.  “You’re welcome.  I’m just glad I…”  He shakes his head.  He seems shaken too.  Understandably so, Yuri supposes, but he’s still having trouble making himself stop trembling, so…  “I had to guess what kind of poison it was.  I’m glad I guessed right.  It was—it was just luck.”

“I couldn’t breathe,” Yuri whispers, bowing his head again.  “It was _horrible.”_

“I know,” Beka murmurs.  “I saw.  I’m sorry.”

“I thought I was going to die,” Yuri confides, his voice even quieter.  It feels strange to say out loud, now that the moment is over, but if he has to share that thought with anyone, it would definitely be Beka.  “I thought, I—I thought…”

“No,” Beka says.  “You wouldn’t have.  I wouldn’t have—I won’t let that happen.”

Yuri hesitates.  “Do… you think it’s over?”

The assassin used an incredibly fast-acting poison.  They probably left, assuming Yuri dead as soon as it entered his bloodstream, if they haven’t been back by now to strike the two of them down while they sit on the rug in the dimness, crying.  Maybe they’re safe now.

For the moment.

Ivanovich is going to want to hunt him down, Yuri realizes.  He must know that Katsudon knows now.  The question is whether he’s going to try to punish Yuri for letting the secret get out, or if he’s just going to change tactics.  He doesn’t know.

“I think it’s over,” Beka confirms.  “For now, at least.”

“For now,” Yuri echoes.  _God,_ he hates being in this fucking palace.  Coming back here was a mistake.  Wanting to help Viktor…

Viktor.

Viktor might not be dead.  That’s still something to hold on to.  That’s…

“Hey,” Yuri says softly.  “If you were hiding a king somewhere so you could draw his blood and keep a spell going, you’d want him somewhere close to where your fake is living, right?  In case of emergencies or whatever?  So the fake doesn’t have to vanish for too long?”

“Yes,” Beka says slowly.  “Especially because that spell, if the one they’re using is the one I read about, requires renewal fairly frequently.  He must be close.”

“Hmm,” Yuri hums.  He doesn’t want to keep talking out loud, now that he’s basically received confirmation that his room is bugged—he’ll have to do something about that tomorrow—but it certainly gives him something to think about.

They climb back into bed, though Yuri leaves the lamp on this time, and this time he doesn’t even pretend he wants to let go of Beka’s hand.  They’re both far too shaken for that.  But the rush of the fight is wearing off, and Yuri is exhausted, even more than earlier, and he just wants to _sleep._

Viktor can’t be in the palace dungeons.  They still have all that magic that’s loyal to the Nikiforovs, the ones who laced the spells into the brick and mortar all those hundreds of years ago.  So he must be somewhere that’s not the palace dungeons, but close.

There’s an old guardhouse, complete with a few cells for offenders who for whatever reason couldn’t be held in palace dungeons—in the past, it was used to hold one of Yuri’s great-great-great-something uncles, who conspired to kill his brother and take the crown but was caught and convicted. 

He has a feeling…

He might not sleep soundly tonight at all, but something tells him that even in the darkness, there still is a bright little thread of hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy birthday to me, as a present to myself i'm posting a chapter hahaha!!!
> 
> 1\. several of you thought fake viktor might be coming and i have to say i was so incredibly pleased that the foreshadowing was effective because i was worried it might seem way out of left field?? so yes i'm very glad you all theorized about that :D
> 
> 2\. subtitle this chap: yuri plisetsky and the horrible, terrible, no-good very bad day
> 
> 3\. chapter title came from [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kVRBBTWCbS0) song which is absolutely amazing and which i love lots!!! it's like sort of the Theme Song i've been using for this arc of trfl so give it a listen if you want!! ♥
> 
> 4\. huge thanks to all of you readers, once again!! ily all and i'm glad you're sticking around!!!! your comments are greatly appreciated and give me motivation to work on this behemoth of a story!!!
> 
> next time: sunlight can find its way behind closed doors, darling. all it needs is a little crack.


	15. paper boats, floating on a stream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri makes another discovery, Mila enters a new side of court, and Yuuri decides that he has had enough of waiting around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for disturbing imagery (during a nightmare) at the beginning of the chapter!

He’s backed up against the wall, [blood](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1_6PunpVxZw) dripping down his cheek and terror coiling in his gut.  The brick is rough against his back, scraping and clinging at his clothes as his knees give out and he slides down, collapsing out of terror, and the assassins advance.  He’s going to die here.  _Mari, Phichit, Viktor, I’m so sorry…_

But just like it always does, the temperature drops.

Relief hits him so fast he almost throws up—oh, thank god, Viktor is here, Viktor will save him, oh god, he isn’t going to die after all—but doesn’t settle, doesn’t destroy the lingering unease, and Yuuri is left clutching at himself and trembling, his knife uselessly distant.

Ice coats the alleyway.  What happens next is a blur.  Viktor is there, and the assassins are gone, and then Viktor picks him up so gently he could _cry,_ and—and maybe he does?  But then they’re home, curled up together in a big cozy armchair as the sun sets outside the window.

“I love you,” Yuuri blurts, because there’s still blood dripping down his face and pooling in the hollow above his collarbone, and Viktor needs to know.  He needs to know even though they’re safe and comfortable and together.  “I love you so much.”

Viktor smiles, and Yuuri feels like he _should_ feel more comfortable in his arms, settled against his chest and halfway in his lap.  But something still feels off, and he clutches at Viktor in the hopes that Viktor being here will fix things.

“Oh, Yuuri.  You don’t really love me,” Viktor says, his voice far too warm and sweet for the words he’s saying.  He sounds like liquid gold drizzled over sunbeams, syrupy-sweet and beautiful, but he—he’s saying horrible, awful lies, and they don’t make sense.

“Yes, I do,” Yuuri argues, confused and faint.  Why is he still bleeding?  The assassins are gone!  “I love you.  You mean everything to me.  You know that.  I love you, you _know_ I love you!”

“If you loved me, you would never have let yourself be fooled into thinking that that false king was me,” Viktor hums, still gentle as if he speaks words of affection.  Yuuri feels nauseous.  “You didn’t have any faith in me.  You thought I would just give up on you.  How can you say you love me, Yuuri?”

 _Yuuri?  Yuuri?_  It almost echoes, like the world’s most horrifying bell chiming over and over again.  _How can you say you love me, Yuuri?_

“I—that wasn’t rational of me—I didn’t—it wasn’t—I should have—I’m _sorry,”_ he begs, hanging his head.  Blood drips into his clothes, into his hands.  It’s warm, too.  Everything is too warm.  “I should have known, I should have, you’re right, I just—I’m a fucking moron, I panicked, I’m s-sorry!”

“If you loved me, you would have known.  But you never loved me at all,” Viktor says.  He kisses the blood smeared on Yuuri’s cheek, and his lips come away red.  When Yuuri looks up at him, his face is no longer his own—it’s the assassin with the gun, the one from the alleyway, the one who was about to shoot him.  The barrel suddenly presses into the bottom of his chin, the one cold thing in this warm, warm room.  “You never loved your poor, sad prince.”

Yuuri chokes on a scream. 

He scrambles to get away, but he slips on his own blood—when did there get to be so much of it?—and falls to the floor, chest heaving.  Everything is red, red, red.  “No!” he sobs.  “No!  I’m sorry!  Vitya!  Vitya, _please,_ I love—”

The gunshot cuts off anything else he might have wanted to say.

Yuuri’s eyes fly open.  His heart is pounding, blood rushing in his ears, and he finds himself halfway across his bedroom, stumbling to the bathroom in a disoriented, panicked shuffle, before he’s even aware that he’s awake.  He’s just desperate to scrub his own blood from his face, choking on tears even though he knows it was just a dream, just a dream, just a dream…

He flicks the lights on and stares at his disheveled self in the mirror.  There’s no blood anywhere.  All that’s there is a scar.  Just a scar.

The funny thing about being in front of the mirror as the tears start to come is that he can watch his own face crumple, although it’s even less clear than usual.  But he can see his lip tremble and his brows knit together, his vision blurring, and then his knees give out and he sinks to the floor, choking on a hoarse sob.

His fingers fumble at his throat until they find the chain with the ring on it, safe and secure under his shirt, and he clutches at it with desperate urgency.  It’s real, it’s solid, and it’s here with him now.  It’s here, and he loves Viktor, and he still has the ring, and… and…

Oh, god.  _Viktor._

Viktor, who might be _dead._

Another sob wracks his body almost violently, and he squeezes the ring so tightly it hurts, pressing into his hand.  Prince Altin said—he said that Ivanovich told Yura that Viktor is dead.  He also said he has his doubts, but—just—even the _possibility—_

“Don’t be dead,” he gasps out loud, because maybe saying it out loud will make it a little more real that he wants this more than anything.  Viktor _can’t_ have been killed so quietly, killed and replaced, like he didn’t even matter.  “P-please.  Please stay.  W-wait for me, Vi—Vitya, sweetheart, please, _please.”_

A fake.  The Viktor walking around, smiling emptily at dances, saying he doesn’t care about Yuuri anymore… that Viktor isn’t _Viktor._ He’s a foul man named Sergei, masquerading as the King of Ruthenia, and _that’s_ why everything about him felt so wrong.  He didn’t feel like Yuuri’s Vitya because he _isn’t._

Yuuri should have known that.  He shouldn’t have doubted his own perceptions.  His Viktor would… would never…

He breaks down all over again, remembering the softness of Viktor’s hands as he cupped his cheeks and the tenderness of their last kiss, before the door closed with so much finality and he left Ruthenia.  Vitya would _never_ have left him alone with his panic and despair.  His darling loves—loved?—him.

_I love you so, so much, Katsuki Yuuri.  Whatever happens tomorrow and every day after that, just—please, please never doubt that._

“I love you, too,” Yuuri sobs, broken and grieving.  “I should never have doubted—oh, god, _please_ still—please be o-okay, please, _please!”_

The bathroom floor is not a very comfortable place to cry.  Several minutes pass, and he gradually becomes aware of the ache in his neck from hunching over like this, and with a pathetic little sniffle, he lifts his head from his knees and looks plaintively up at the lights.  Tears still stream down his cheeks, and he’s sure he could cry more if he wanted to, but he’s so _tired._

“I want you back,” he sniffles to the ring, pressing a sad little kiss to it.  To Vitya.  He can’t fathom the thought of never holding him again, never hearing that laugh or seeing that beautiful, luminous smile, the one meant for him and him alone.  “I want you back, I want you _back, I want you…”_

He has to be alive.  Prince Altin said he suspected as much, and Yuuri has to cling to that, has to believe it, because the alternative is… it’s… it’s too much.  He can’t stand the thought.

“I’m so sorry,” he whimpers.  “I should never have doubted you.”

A few more seconds tick by, so silent that they’re unbearably loud.  Yuuri slowly uncurls from his ball on the floor and drags himself upright, clutching at the counter to pull himself to his feet, and stares into the sink to avoid looking at his own blotchy, tear-streaked cheeks.  He turns the water on, lets it run, and lets its coolness soothe his hands for a few seconds before he starts washing his face, swallowing another sob that wants to tear itself out.

After he’s done, he hesitates.  That nightmare was disturbingly graphic—he can still see all the blood, the coldness in Viktor’s eyes despite the sweetness of his voice… everything is still there, too close to the surface.  He doesn’t think he can sleep again right now.

God, he misses Vicchan more than ever.

Sighing, he flicks on the lights as he walks from his bedroom into his sitting room, heading for the little kitchenette where his trusty tea kettle awaits.  Chamomile should calm his nerves, and hopefully allow him to get back to sleep.  And maybe some music and a book.  Yes.  That’s a good plan.  Or—no, no, a movie.  He needs something more mindless than a book right now.  With a book, he might just stare at the words, unseeing, as unwanted thoughts and memories flood into his mind and send him spiraling into despair.  A movie is a better idea.

Soon enough, he’s gotten a blanket and wrapped himself in it, settling into the corner of the couch with his steaming mug as his laptop plays the opening scenes of Spirited Away. 

 _We never got to this one,_ he realizes, thinking of Viktor again.  They wanted to watch all the Studio Ghibli movies, so they started going through the list alphabetically.  They still have—had?  No, have—so many more to finish.

And the tea samples.  They still have to get through the tea samples.

There’s just so much they never did.  Yuuri thought—he spent all those days laughing in Viktor’s arms, thinking _we have time, we have the rest of our lives together_ like a naïve fool, assuming that everything would stay static and okay.  What an _idiot_ he was.

He blows on his tea.  He misses Viktor.  There’s almost a physical ache in his chest from the lack of arms around him, holding him close—Viktor liked to pull Yuuri into his lap when they watched movies, laying his chin on his shoulder and humming along to the soundtracks.  He always said sitting like that was coziest, and it wasn’t like Yuuri would ever have complained.

Now he just misses him. 

A soft knock on the door adjoining his rooms to Rika’s smaller quarters interrupts his thoughts, and he blinks, pausing the movie.  “Yes?”

Rika opens it and sticks her head in, bobbing in a quick little bow.  “I, um… just wanted to check on you,” she says, flicking her eyes to the floor a little shyly.  “I heard you crying.  When you didn’t go back to sleep, I thought, maybe I should… ask?”

Yuuri is too tired and sad for a proper mask of courtesy and levity, so he just offers a wan smile, oddly grateful she didn’t come in while he was actively crying.  He wouldn’t have wanted to be seen like that.  “Thank you for the concern.  I’m… well, I’m not _fine,_ but I’ll be alright.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” she says, but lingers.  After a moment of fidgeting with the door, she bites her lip.  “Is there, um… is there anything I can do to help?  I can go get Lord—I mean, Phichit, if you would like.”

“Let him sleep,” Yuuri says immediately, because sometimes, he stops being good at asking for help, and sometimes he just feels weak and wants to wallow in despair and let someone _else_ take care of him for a while, later.  It makes no sense, because if he wants to be taken care of he really should ask for help, but he doesn’t _want_ to ask.  He just… wants.

He wants Viktor, for one thing.  He wants Viktor, safe and sound and in his arms and alright.

“Of course,” Rika says, bobbing her head again.  “Do you… would you prefer to be alone?”

Yuuri bites his lip.  The honest answer is _no,_ but… well…

“Yuuri?”

“I wouldn’t want to keep you up,” he hedges.  “You need your rest, Rika; I’ll be fine, really…”

Rika levels him a suspicious, deadpan stare that would do Phichit proud.  “I think that is a _no,_ then?” she asks, rhetorically because she’s already coming into his sitting room and closing the door.  “Are you sure you don’t want Phichit around?”

“I don’t want to wake him,” Yuuri says honestly, staring down into his tea.  “It was just a nightmare.  I’ll be fine in the morning.”

He won’t be, but he’ll have bottled all his guilt and sorrow back up properly, so it counts, right?  It counts.  He’ll be fine enough to tackle the outside world.  And to put on a strong, brave façade when he talks to Yura.  Yura—Yura needs someone to be strong.  He was exhausted and terrified a few hours ago when he and Prince Altin called.  Yuuri _has_ to be strong for him.

It strikes him that this is much the same way he felt after Queen Vasilisa’s death, when he convinced himself to downplay his own grief so much that he completely broke down and couldn’t see Viktor’s suffering the night that Viktor broke off the engagement.  He doesn’t know what to do with this information, however, so he shoves it far, far into the recesses of his mind to be dealt with later.

“I can stay, at least,” Rika offers.  She settles onto the couch next to him, cozy while maintaining a proper distance, and peers at the screen.  “Oh!  Spirited Away!  This is my favorite Ghibli movie, you know.”  Giving him a sidelong glance, she purses her lips in an expression very reminiscent of Sanae and adds, “You know.  In case you were going to apologize for making me feel obligated to stay, or anything.”

And then she looks a bit bashful for being so forward, clasping her hands in her lap, but doesn’t apologize for it, which Yuuri has to stifle a laugh at.  Clearly, Phichit has been rubbing off on her.

“Well, when you put it that way,” he shrugs, trailing off.  “Would you like some tea, at least?”

Rika shakes her head.  “No, thank you.  I’m alright.”

They watch in silence for a while.  Neither of them speaks for around twenty or so minutes, when Yuuri finally sighs, watching the parade of animated spirits cross the bridge.  “I have to call Christophe again in the morning,” he finally murmurs, sipping his tea.  “I’m so tired.”

Rika hums sympathetically, but doesn’t try to tell him it’s okay, which he appreciates.  Nothing about all this bullshit is okay.  Viktor didn’t deserve any of this.  Hell, Yuuri himself— _he_ doesn’t deserve this, either!

“I told him the bare bones of what Prince Altin told me,” he continues, looking down into the soft yellow of his tea.  “But I had to hang up before we could really discuss it in detail.  I told him I’d call back in the morning, but I don’t want to.  I had to hang up on him because I—I panicked and I couldn’t breathe and I just—I couldn’t deal with it.  I just want to _rest._ But I keep having to do things and be strong and I just—”

Fucking hell, he is _not_ going to break down crying for the second time in one night.  He just refuses.  He takes a deep breath to stabilize himself, sips his tea again, and breathes more freely.

“I just want all of this to blow over already,” he admits, voice soft and vulnerable.  “I’m caught up in the middle of everything, but I don’t want to be.  I just want… I just want things to be okay.”

“They will be,” Rika offers, equally soft.  “They aren’t now, not by a long shot, but I think… I think they will be.”

Yuuri offers her another small, wan smile.  She was in the room when he talked to Prince Altin and poor Yura.  She knows what he heard.  “Do you?”

“Yes,” Rika says.  “You might not believe in yourself and your ability to make it through this, Yuuri.  And that’s okay.  You deserve to rest, also.  But I do believe that your strength is enough that you will find a way for everything to work out.”

Yuuri snorts humorlessly.  “That might be a tall order,” he says.  “Vitya was always the one who could make things just… be okay.”

Rika shrugs slightly, demure.  “I never met him, so I can’t say.  But from what I’ve seen of you lately, maybe he rubbed off on you more than you realize.”

Yuuri gives her a startled look.  That thought is more comforting than it ought to be.  Just the concept of carrying something of Viktor within his heart is relieving, like no matter what they did to him, Viktor will forever live in Yuuri’s love, in his spirit.  Can he be someone even half as inspirational and beautiful as Viktor was (is)?

“I hope so,” he finally answers.  “Do you really think…?”

Rika just smiles.  “Yes.”

“Oh,” Yuuri says, and touches the ring on its chain again.  “…Oh.”

* * *

It’s a chilly winter afternoon, with clear skies and frigid temperatures, when Mila settles down across from Anya at a pastry shop, hot chocolate in hand.  “Phew!” she laughs, cupping the mug in both hands.  “It’s so cold out there, I don’t know how we’re ever making it back after this!”

Anya chuckles.  “I’m sure we’ll figure something out,” she says lightly, brushing her hair behind her shoulder.  “We’re resourceful ladies.”

Mila laughs again.  “Yeah, we are.”

It’s nice to be seeing Anya again, but something about the fact that she’s doing it for political purposes makes Mila feel a little bit sour.  They’re friends, yes, but being close is hard when there’s so much tension and turmoil in court.

“It’s good to be hanging out with you again,” Anya comments, leaning her chin on one hand.  “It’s been forever.”

“Yeah,” Mila agrees a little guiltily.  But the part she has to play relies on her acknowledging how long it’s been, _and_ the politics behind her having to stay away, so she really can’t afford to be sentimental and clingy.  “You know how it is with parents and traditional family allegiances.”  She rolls her eyes.

Anya raises an elegant eyebrow.  “They’re giving you grief for daring to be seen in public with people who don’t bow and scrape to the throne?”  Her tone is dry and scathing, but Mila knows her well enough to realize that it’s not out of derision so much as the desire to protect her friend—to protect Mila, from parents who don’t understand her.  It makes her feel guilty all over again.  Politics of Ryabovas and Babichevas aside, Anya has always been a good friend to her.

“Well… they were,” she hedges.  “Until, uh, you know.  The Queen died.  They don’t entirely think Viktor’s ready to be king, based on how he’s been acting, and I gotta say, I agree?  Like, he’s a nice enough dude, but he’s been cutting off from all our allies and being so aloof.  I don’t mean to sound like his mom dying isn’t an excuse, but…”

“But if he’s going to wallow in grief he should hand the reins over to someone who knows how to lead?” Anya finishes for her, seeming pleasantly surprised.  “Look at you!  Talking like a real Ryabova now,” she teases.  “My family is of a similar mindset, but I guess you already knew that.”

Mila wrinkles her nose.  “Yeah, a little bit,” she agrees.  “It’s not like ‘no ill will to the Nikiforovs but we can do better’ has been their official stance for years or anything.”  She shrugs.  “I didn’t disagree with the Queen, she knew what she was doing, but with Viktor, I just… I don’t know.”

It’s a lie steeped in truth.  While Queen Vasilisa was in power, Mila upheld the traditional alignment of her family—staunch supporters of the crown, and vocal in court.  Since it’d be hard to pretend that she just did a complete one-eighty and changed her mind that quickly, she’s decided she’s going to pretend her issues are with Viktor and his leadership, and she’ll use _that_ to get her foot in the door and figure out what Ivanovich is planning.

“Yeah,” Anya agrees, nodding.  “If it makes you feel better, you’re definitely not the only one doubting.  A lot of people in court don’t really know what to make of him.  Even Lord Popovich was complaining at me the other day—”

“Oh, Georgi,” Mila sighs, shaking her head.  Anya cracks a grin as she continues.

“—that he doesn’t understand why the King is giving him the cold shoulder these days and acting like they’re just court acquaintances again.  As if I have anything useful to tell him!”  She laughs sharply.  “Be proud of me, Mila.  I didn’t tell him ‘well, tough luck because I don’t care either’; I actually tried to be nice.”

“I’m very proud,” Mila says drolly.  She takes a long, slow sip of her hot cocoa, closing her eyes for a moment at its pleasant warmth. 

“Thank you,” Anya grins.  “It’s a shocker, right?  Me, being nice?”

“A little bit,” Mila teases.  “Seems a touch out of character, you know?”

“Hey!”  Anya swats her arm, laughing.  “You aren’t supposed to _agree_ with me!”

They sit and talk for several minutes, and Mila tries her best to actually enjoy herself a little and to smile and laugh genuinely.  Which is hard, when she’s worried sick about Viktor and Yuri—especially because Yuri looked so incredibly distraught the other morning and she didn’t have much opportunity to talk to him at all, not even to ask whether he was alright.  She doesn’t know how closely Ivanovich is having everyone in the palace watched, but Yuri _must_ be under close surveillance, as Viktor’s heir.  If she’s seen talking to him, there’s no way it wouldn’t go back to Ivanovich and the top ranks that she must be trying to spy because she’s still sympathetic to Yuri. 

If she’s going to do this right, she has to do it alone.

(Or… maybe not quite alone.  At least she has Anya, even if she can’t confide in her.)

Not for the first time, Mila wishes she was back in Víteliú, lying on the beach with her head in Sara’s lap.  That was the ideal life, right there.  She misses Sara so much it’s almost like a physical ache in her chest.  Maybe she’ll call her tonight, just talk about her day and wanting to see her again, just so she can listen to her voice when she laughs and replies.

When they finally finish their drinks and pastries, Mila sighs ruefully as she shrugs back into her coat and pulls her gloves on.  “We should do this more often,” she says.  “I missed seeing you outside of court.”

“Oh, me too,” Anya smiles, leaning over to give her a quick hug.  “This was fun.  Oh!  Hey, I know.  A few of the ladies from court and I do tea parties every week.  You know—Miloslavskaya, Sokolova, that bunch.  You should join!  It’s really casual and everything, no obligations, but you get those good bits of juicy gossip.  Did you know apparently Andrei—you know, Lord Ivanovich’s nephew—asked to court Natalya last weekend?  She’s over the moon!”

Mila perks up, trying to think ahead.  Natalya Miloslavskaya is a baronness and known member of Ivanovich’s faction of court.  If Mila can have tea with her and get some “juicy gossip”, _especially_ if she’s being courted by Ivanovich’s own nephew…

“That’s amazing!” she gasps, as excitedly as she can manage.  “I’d love to join, yes.  Gimme all those details!”  She laughs and nudges Anya’s side playfully.  Using her own reputation as someone with a little too much curiosity for her own good could quite easily work well for her in gossip circles, especially if she plays up her own naïve curiosity…

“Great!” Anya beams.  “I’ll let them know you’re coming with me next time.  You ready to brave the weather now?”

“You know I am,” Mila says, lifting her chin because she can never turn down a challenge.  “We’re resourceful ladies.  Let’s go!”

 _God,_ pretending like this is going to be so exhausting.

* * *

Yuri is in something of a foul mood today.  By “something of a foul mood” he means he is either going to make himself hoarse by screaming obscenities at Ivanovich, or he’s going to spar poor Beka into the ground just to get all this anger out in a productive fashion.  Beka’s good with a blade, there’s no question, but Yuri has been training against Viktor, and—

 _God._ Sergei’s gonna have to be at the tournament next month instead of Viktor, and Yuri is going to hand him his _ass._ It’s gonna be great.  Sergei is an absolute fucking asshole who deserves to be punted into next week with a spiked boot, and Yuri can only use the sparring weapons until disarming him, but he’ll inflict as much pain as he can get in the meantime.

Maybe he should track that piece of shit down and make him spar now.  After all, spending time in the sparring grounds with his heir is something Viktor would do.  It’d make his charade more believable.  And all that shit.

Ugh.

God, he is so fucking pissed.

(It’s easier to be angry than it is to be afraid, and he doesn’t want to think about… other things, right now.  Things like shadows in the night and a body that doesn’t respond and the dizziness swirling around one’s vision when there’s no air—)

Anyway.  Ivanovich and his stupid fucking murder attempt failed, and Katsudon knows the truth now, so _ha._ They’re at a stalemate, and there’s nothing stupid Sergei or Ivanovich himself can do about it.  The information has left the country.

“Do you think they’re gonna try to kill one of us as retribution?” he asks Beka out of the blue, sitting on the balcony outside his quarters.  It might be bugged too.  But hell, Ivanovich already knows that he told Katsudon.  What does it matter if he and Beka keep talking?

(He really, really needs to figure out what in his room was tampered with.  This isn’t safe.)

“I don’t know,” Beka says, more calmly than anyone has any right to be while discussing his own theoretical death.  It reminds Yuri of when Viktor and Katsudon would sit there and talk about the merits of someone assassinating Katsudon while spreading butter and jam on toast to have with their afternoon tea.  “I wouldn’t, if I were them, just to avoid the possible scandal of a death in the palace so soon after the Queen’s, but they did have some plans to deal with the fallout.”

Yuri hums thoughtfully, scowling as he snags a sliced apple from the plate between them.  “S’true.”  It _would_ make sense for the death threat to only be used as an extreme measure, yeah…  People might talk if everyone around Viktor just kept dying.  By killing Yuri, the fucking traitors in the palace would run a high risk of generating some nasty rumors, even if they blamed Beka for it.  So he’s still worried, but Beka does make a good point.

This apple is kind of sour.  Yuri chucks it over the edge of the balcony and crosses his arms, totally not sulking in any way. 

Beka just gives him a sidelong glance and a raised eyebrow.

“What?” he huffs.

“You’re pouting,” Beka observes, calmly selecting an apple slice for himself.  “Understandably, but all the same.  Pouting.”

“Shut up,” Yuri grouses.  “Am not.”

Beka snorts, but falls silent.  Yuri tosses the next slice at him.

Later, he’s walking back from a session of court and reviewing some shit with his tutors, heading through the gardens when something skitters up behind him, and he whirls, automatically on the defensive, only to get bowled over by fucking _Makkachin._

“Hey!” he complains, while the dog whines and licks his face frantically, nuzzling his cheeks like he does to Viktor.  “Hey, get off, you stupid mutt—”

Wait.

If Sergei is pretending to be Viktor, then who’s taking care of…

Guilt rises up in his throat, and Yuri feels his irritation vanish as soon as it came.  He sits up and gives Makkachin a stern look, and he obediently sits back and wags his tail slightly, head cocked to the side.  Yuri sighs.

Sergei, that fucking bag of dicks, totally can’t be trusted to take care of a dog.  Especially not a dog Viktor loved.  Loves?  Fuck.  He can’t be dead.  Beka said he might not be dead.  Yuri will fucking kill him if he’s dead.

“Alright,” he mutters.  “Come on, you, let’s get going…”

Makkachin looks utterly delighted, with that lame dopey-ass doggy grin on his face as he starts following Yuri back to the residential quarters of the palace.  They walk in silence, Makkachin happily trotting at Yuri’s side in the late-evening haze, until Makkachin stops, tugging at Yuri’s pants with a gentle but insistent bite.  If he was less peeved about having _dog slobber_ on his _pants,_ Yuri might have marvelled at how careful Makkachin was to only snag fabric and not his actual leg.

“Hey!” he complains, tugging back. “Let go!”

Makkachin does not let go.  He just tugs again and whines softly, then stiffens and flattens his ears.  The tail goes down, down between his legs, and Yuri frowns.

“You don’t have to be _scared,_ you know,” he mutters, offering a guilty pat.  “I’m not gonna hurt you or anything, stupid…”

But Makkachin just keeps tugging, still whining, and with a roll of his eyes, Yuri groans and follows the dog’s lead.  God.  What is his life fucking coming to, letting a dog haul him around his own palace courtyard.

Makkachin stops abruptly and cowers, growling softly, near the corner of the building, and Yuri frowns.  What the fuck has him so freaked out?

Kind of freaked out himself, now, he peers around the corner hesitantly, only to see—of _course—_ fucking _Sergei_ walking across the garden over that way.  What the hell is he doing out here?  Isn’t he supposed to be in Viktor’s office right now, rubbing his filthy fucking hands all over Viktor’s mementos of Katsudon and ruining everything for everyone? 

… Well, they always did say that curiosity kills the[cat](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hMQMuP4-WIM).

“I’m gonna follow him,” Yuri mutters to Makkachin.  “You stay here.”

Makkachin whines again.  Apparently, Makkachin does not like Sergei.  Yuri can get behind that.

But when Yuri inches around the corner, Makkachin doesn’t follow, instead shifting and whining again.  Yuri gives him a desperate look.  “Go find Beka!” he instructs, flapping a hand.  “Go!  He’s waiting for you.  Find Beka!”

Makkachin hesitates, sitting back on his haunces and keening softly, but when Yuri flaps his hand more insistently, he starts to slink off.  God, he better not feel unwanted, or Yuri will feel like a supermassive dick later.  He’s just _trying_ to help out here!  Makkachin clearly wanted him to go that way before he saw Sergei over there.

Lucky for him, Sergei seems to be on the phone, so when Yuri steals after him and ducks behind a tall bush, feeling somewhere between “really idiotic” and “possibly in a spy thriller”, he doesn’t even notice.  Fucking idiot dick that he is.  Of course he doesn’t notice.  He’s a stupid piece of shit.

“Did you see the damn dog anywhere?” Sergei is saying, sounding irritated.  Yuri has to bite back a snappish comment about if he thinks he’s being a good fake Viktor, he’s doing a piss-poor job of it.  Viktor would _never_ talk about Makkachin like that.  “He got out of the room when he bit me earlier.”

There’s a pause as Sergei keeps walking.  Yuri takes the opportunity to scurry to another bush further along, smirking to himself.  Makkachin is a good boy, and he takes back any slander he’s ever spewed about that raggedy fluff bucket.  He _bit Sergei._ Fucking _amazing._

“Well, keep an eye out, I guess,” Sergei grumbles.  He sounds disgruntled and peeved and Yuri is fucking _living_ right now.  Makkachin deserves a good scratch behind the ears for this.  Maybe if he and Beka keep him hidden, Sergei will never fucking sleep well again because he’ll be afraid of a poodle looming in the shadows, jaws at the ready.  “Whatever.  I’m going to renew it now.  I’ll see you for dinner.”

He hangs up, and Yuri quickly ducks into the shadow of a nearby tree.  Whatever the fuck it was that Makkachin wanted him to see, he’s gonna find it.  He is.  Even if it was just a bite mark on Sergei’s ass or something.

Actually, no, scratch that, he doesn’t wanna see that, he’d be happier to just know it happened but like, without actually… seeing it.

Anyway.  He’s on a mission here.

Now that Sergei isn’t distracted by talking to Ivanovich (at least, Yuri is pretty sure it was Ivanovich), he picks up his pace, and Yuri finds it a little harder to keep up while staying in the cover of hedges.  His heart starts to pound a little harder, remembering last time he got caught—death threats and everything—but fuck, he’s in this now, and he doesn’t want to just _give up._ What’s the fucker going to go “renew”?  Is it his spell?

Beka said that blood magic like this probably needs the blood of the person being impersonated to be sustained.  That might mean…

Yuri swallows hard.  _Viktor’s blood._

He better be alive to be producing that blood.  There’s no way they would’ve just… killed him… and…

Yeah, no.  No way.  No, that’s fucking awful and disgusting and he’s not thinking… yeah, nope.  No.

As Sergei approaches the old guardhouse near the south corner of the palace courtyards, Yuri’s disquiet grows.  Shit.  Was he _right_ when he pondered about them stowing Viktor somewhere nearby?  Holy shit.  They’d probably actually murder him if he got caught around here now.  He’s in no hurry to repeat last night’s incident, thanks—god, he needs to stop _thinking_ about that, fuck!

Maybe he should… stop following Sergei… and come back later…

They’re nearing the palace walls now, out from the cover of the hedges and trees, and he hesitates.  Maybe he should just go back.  It’d be safer and smarter if he explored around here alone.

But wouldn’t it be watched closely if something important is back here?  Or maybe spelled?  Oh, fuck, what should he _do?_

He steals forward, nearly gives himself a heart attack when he steps on a twig and it cracks (not loudly, thankfully), and hides behind the last tree available, then carefully peers around its trunk.  Sergei is stopped at the entrance to the guardhouse, one hand outstretched.  The wind whips his (Viktor’s?) hair around his face, somehow much stronger just a few meters away.

The area around the house shimmers and glows slightly, and suddenly it clicks—an air elemental charm is being used as a lock.  It’ll only dissipate to those it deems trusted. 

 _Fuck._ He can’t just sneak in later.  He probably _could_ overpower the barrier with fire, but not without making a scene, oh god, oh fuck—

The barrier’s glow fades, and it vanishes like a little puff of mist blowing away in a breeze.  Yuri knows how elemental charm-locks work, though.  It’ll be back any second now.  Sergei walks through, unperturbed, and enters the supposedly-unused guardhouse.

Yuri stares at it, hands clenched into fists so tightly that his knuckles are white and his palms sting from his nails.  Is he… should he… this is…

Oh, hell.

He runs for it, frantically sprinting across the lawn and hoping desperately that there won’t be any other spell traps laid around the guardhouse.  There can’t be, right?  Too much charming would interfere with the magic of the palace in general, even if it _is_ a lot weaker out here away from the oldest parts…

Just as the wind starts to pick up menacingly, he flings himself across the barrier, panting from either exertion or nerves (probably both).  Just as suddenly, the air calms, harmless from the inside apparently.  Yuri takes a moment to steel himself against the point of no return—when he goes through this door, there’s no telling what he’ll find—and turns the knob.

When he hesitantly pokes his head through the door, he’s greeted by an empty, dusty barracks.  It’s a relief that he doesn’t see Sergei, waiting with an evil, twisted grin or something as he ruins everything else and tries to kill him again.  (He sort of might have been expecting that, a little bit.)

Anyway. 

Tiptoeing, he picks his way down the central corridor of the room, keeping each step limited to the dust-free areas of the floor to avoid leaving footprints.  At this point, his heart is pounding in his throat and he’s seriously considering just turning and fleeing back the way he came, but he _knows_ he might not get another opportunity to get in here.  He has to see this through. 

He almost walks through the door into the next room, where there’s nothing but more empty, unused bunks, except the floor in there is way dustier and makes him nervous.  When he pauses, he notices the trap door next to his foot.

Huh.

The hinges don’t look rusty, which is odd in and of itself.  And if the dust is thicker past it, then Sergei must have gone down here.  There’s no footsteps in the next room.

Hoping it won’t squeak, he gingerly picks up the handle and tugs.  The door comes up without protest, so easily that it _must_ have been oiled recently, and reveals a ladder into a dim corridor, lit here and there by little balls of magelight.  Yuri swallows hard, listens for a moment, and when he hears nothing, starts to descend.

The hallway below is all stone and looks kind of like the dungeons under the main palace, narrow and lined with cell doors, but it’s a lot smaller than those, and the telltale feeling of magic is very faint.  Yuri doesn’t actually know if he can feel the palace’s magic at all.  That’s not particularly comforting. 

But now he’s here.  He has to find out what’s going on.

And he can hear Sergei’s voice up ahead, too.  That’s interesting.  Is he talking to—maybe—is it—

“Ah yes, Sleeping Beauty is out again,” Sergei sneers.  There’s the sound of rattling metal, and Yuri quickly realizes it’s a key in a lock.  “Typical.  Even the fearsome _Ice King_ himself is no match for a drug cocktail, hmm?”

 _Ice King—_ so it _is_ Viktor!  Yuri’s heart skips a beat, then starts to pound at least twelve times harder.  He walks a little faster, tiptoeing as best as he can.  Viktor is _alive!_ And drugged down here, but alive!

“Fuck you,” Sergei rasps, and…

Wait.  That doesn’t make sense.

_Viktor._

It takes all of his self-restraint and then some not to cry out.  There’s a bit of light spilling from one of the small barred windows in a cell door up ahead.  Yuri sneaks up to it, almost peeps through, but then thinks better of it and kneels, putting his eye to the keyhole.  It’s easier for him to hide this way.

What greets him, albeit rather obscured by the keyhole’s unfortunately small shape, is a bizarre and unsettling sight—Sergei, identical to Viktor himself, stands over a small cot next to a medical stand with several bags of IV fluids.  Seeing it makes Yuri’s blood run cold.  What’s fucking _in_ those things?  What are they pumping his cousin full of?

“Oh!” Sergei says, affecting delight.  “You’re awake!  What a surprise.  Were you waiting on a visit?”

“Go to hell,” Viktor spits.

“I can leave, whatever,” Sergei shrugs.  “I just came here to get the vials Zhanna already set aside.  If you really don’t want any news from the outside world, I mean…”

Viktor is silent.  Yuri can’t tell if it’s an imperious, cold silence or a soft, scared one.  He’s a little afraid to find out.  He wants to yell out encouragement, wants to yank open the door and just light Sergei on fire, but he’s—he’s _scared._

“Aha!” Sergei says.  He seems pleased with himself for hitting a sore point.  “Do you even know how long you’ve been down here?”

“Long enough,” Viktor answers coldly.

“You would say that, wouldn’t you,” Sergei taunts.  Yuri has never hated him as much as he does in this moment.  Dealing with Ivanovich seems more palatable, after his asshole and his infuriating smugness.  Is he only in this entire scheme to be a piece of shit?  Yuri would be willing to bet he never had any fucking friends.  “It has been long enough for _some_ things, at least…”

It’s obviously bait, and Yuri knows it, and he’s sure Viktor knows it too.  There’s a long silence, during which he can’t see but he hopes Viktor is giving Sergei his Icy Glare Of Death, and then Sergei sighs.

“You were _supposed_ to ask ‘for what,’” he says.  “And I would have told you about the thing with Prince Katsuki.  But if you _don’t_ want to talk, I can leave.”

“What thing with Prince Katsuki?” Viktor asks sharply.  Yuri wants to kick him for falling for it.  Or Sergei.  Actually, Sergei would be the better option here.  Viktor is very much drugged.  It wouldn’t be very fair to kick him for this.

Sergei chuckles with malicious glee.  Yuri’s blood runs cold all over again—he’s getting genuine enjoyment out of seeing Viktor suffer.  What kind of fucking monstrosity of a human being… _God,_ if he could just give this fucker a piece of his mind.  And also an oil bath and a spark. 

“Oh, the thing where we sent a Xianese shadow assassin after him the second he left Petersburg,” Sergei says.  “He never made it home!”

He’s _lying._ This fucking dipshit is straight up _lying_ for _no reason_ except to make Viktor upset.  What the fuck.  What the _fuck._ What the actual, honest _fuck!_  

The fear rises.  If he gets caught here, who _knows_ what Sergei would try to do?  Yuri would happily fight him, but what if he has more of those awful drugs from that shadow assassin on hand, or what if—what if he tries to use Viktor as a _hostage,_ or—

God.  He knows what’s down here now.  It’s Viktor.  He knows.  He has to get out of here and tell someone before he gets caught and doesn’t have the chance.  He needs to _run._

“You’re—you’re lying,” Viktor says, but he sounds shaky and uncertain and Yuri wants to cry.  There are actual tears welling up in his eyes from frustration, and his throat has a suspicious lump, and he needs to get _out_ of here before Sergei gets done taunting Viktor and leaves, or else he’ll be spotted because there is nowhere to hide in this corridor, and he needs to tell Katsudon, he needs to tell Katsudon that Viktor is alive and _here,_ and—and—

“Am I?” Sergei asks.  “I guess you’ll never know, will you?”

“You’re _lying,”_ Viktor insists, more frantic this time.  “He’s not dead.”

Sergei just laughs.  “If that makes you feel better, _King Nikiforov._ It’s not like you’ll ever find out.”

Fuck this, fuck this, fuck this, Yuri is going to—he—this is fucking _bullshit_ what the _fuck_ —

He can’t do this.  He can’t listen to any more of this.  If he bursts in and takes Sergei down with a surprise attack, he’d still have to deal with Ivanovich and all the guards and he _can’t_ do that, not on his own.  This is shit and everything is awful and he can’t take any more.

Swallowing tears of rage and frustration, Yuri tiptoes back the way he came.  He has to do something about this, but he needs _help._   God, he’s so tired of being afraid.

(He clings to Makkachin after writing everything down to show Beka without saying it loud, and while Beka steps out to use a secure channel to contact Katsudon again, holding onto a giant fuzzball makes him feel a little less alone.)

* * *

 

[00:35] Yuuri:  
hey christophe i just got some more news from ruthenia. urgent, again.  
do you have time to call?

[00:36] Christophe Giacometti:  
For you, cher?  I’ll always have time ;)

[00:36] Yuuri:  
must you be this way even when i specifically say urgent news

_[Call to: Christophe Giacometti.  Duration 1:34:29]_

[02:02] Yuuri:  
ok! i’m really glad we got that plan ironed out!  
i’ll contact the shadow guild tonight. i have some specific assassins in mind.  
 if all goes well i’ll let you know in the morning.

[02:03] Christophe Giacometti:  
Of course.  Get some rest, too, Yuuri.  
Heaven knows we’re going to need to have our wits about us to pull this off.

[02:03] Yuuri:  
ha, yeah. i know. i’ll go to sleep as soon as i take care of this.  
are you going to talk to your advisors and council now? or afterwards?

[02:04] Christophe Giacometti:  
Normally, my motto is that it’s better to beg forgiveness than permission…  
…But in this case I’d prefer to err on the side of caution.  
So I shall go take care of them now, while you deal with the guild.  
Good night, sleep tight! xoxo

[02:05] Yuuri:  
goodnight! (´｡• ᵕ •｡`)

* * *

Has Phichit ever mentioned that he loves his best friend?

Because he really, really, _really_ loves his best friend, a whole fucking lot.

“Yuuriiiiii!” he sings gleefully, twirling around again and squishing Yuuri in a tight, tight hug.  “Oh my god I’m gonna _cry,_ you are the actual best, oh my _god!”_

“You can—you can put me down whenever—please don’t cry?” Yuuri attempts, his cute little dancer feet stretching in a vain attempt to reach the floor.  “I can’t hug you back if you’re pinning my arms!  Phichit!”

Phichit finally puts him down so he can tackle him, giggling wildly, and lets out a shout of glee when he manages to knock them both over backwards onto the couch.  Yuuri yelps.

“Phichit!” he wheezes.  “Must you manhandle me at the mention of good news?”

“Yes,” Phichit says, because it is the truth, and very obviously so, at that.  “You should know this by now.”

“You didn’t manhandle me when I got engaged,” Yuuri complains, puffing out his cheeks petulantly, and Phichit rolls his eyes good-naturedly.

“Yeah, because when you first got engaged, neither of us thought it was good news,” he reminds his best friend, letting him sit up.  Yuuri adjusts glasses and tries to finger-comb his hopelessly-mussed hair, sighing.

“Well… yeah,” he sighs.  “It was, though.”

“Don’t worry,” Phichit says, patting his shoulder.  “When we get your man back, I’ll definitely manhandle you twice as much to make up for it.”

Yuuri sobers a bit.  “Right,” he says.  “When… when we get him back.”

Phichit can definitely sympathize with his anxiety and unease.  From what they’ve heard from little Russian Yuri through Prince Altin, Viktor is _really_ not in a great place, drugged and imprisoned as he is.  It sounds like a pretty damn shitty place to be in general, and Phichit barely knows the guy.  Yuuri must be worried out of his mind. 

And apparently Altin and Plisetsky are in danger, too.  They must be being watched.  Hopefully nobody will take action against them for the latest information they’ve relayed.  Yuuri cried earlier, when he got the news about the assassination attempt.  He begged Phichit not to tell little Yuri how hard it hit him, but Phichit knows just how upset he was.  Yuuri’s always been too empathetic (heh) for his own good.

But at least there’s good news.

“They’ll be here soon, won’t they?” Yuuri asks, as if reading his mind, and Phichit brightens again, bouncing in place.

“Yup!” he cheers.  “Shadow-jumping from Xian to here takes a couple hours because you have to rest a little between hops, and Rani isn’t nearly as practiced at it as Leki and Amir are—she only knows the spell because she and Amir travel together sometimes and it’s just practical, but she doesn’t use it near as much—so they might arrive kinda late, but definitely tonight, if you got a confirmation on the contract.”

“Good,” Yuuri says, looking relieved.  He sighs a little wearily, running a hand through his hair in a habit he’s definitely picked up from his father, and Phichit studies him.  He’s juggling a _lot_ of things right now.  They’ve spent enough years together that sometimes he forgets Yuuri is a prince, but there are moments when it hits him that his best friend is cunning and smart and determined and powerful, and he knows how to use what he’s got.  He can’t help but be proud of him.  “We’ll go over the plan with them when they arrive, and talk about it in more detail tomorrow.”

The plan.  Right.  Phichit nods.  In his excitement about seeing his guild friends again—he really thought that goodbye had been forever, but Yuuri, sweet beloved Yuuri, found a solution to that—he actually almost forgot that they’re coming for a capital-R Reason.

“You should sleep early,” he admonishes.  “You were up late talking to Chris the other night, and you haven’t been sleeping well lately in general.”

Yuuri gives him a funny look.  “You’re calling him _Chris_ now?”

Phichit just grins.  “Hey, he told me to, am I supposed to say no to a prince?”

“You say no to me all the time,” Yuuri grumbles, and the venerable aura tumbles from his shoulders as he turns into a petulant, teasing goofball again.

“That’s because you have bad ideas sometimes,” Phichit says.  “I’m not letting you take a nap in a hot spring no matter how tired you are, you doofus.”

“Rude,” Yuuri says, no rancor in his voice.

“I prefer the term _sensible,”_ Phichit sniffs daintily.  “And you still ought to sleep early tonight.  I can fill them in on the plan too, but they’ll be tired anyway so you might as well go to bed and do the proper briefing in the morning.”

Yuuri frowns.  “No, I’m making them get involved in a high-level espionage plot,” he says.  “I owe it to them to greet them personally on arrival at the very least.”  He wrinkles his nose.  “Funny that I didn’t do that when Viktor got here.  Remember that?”

Phichit laughs.  “Yeah,” he says, grinning wryly.  “That was pretty funny, in retrospect.”

Yuuri smiles wistfully.  “I can’t wait to see him again.”

Unsaid: _I hope I do actually get to see him again._

Phichit reaches over and takes his hand, twining his fingers between Yuuri’s and squeezing comfortingly.  Yuuri’s hands are cold.  “It’ll work,” he assures gently.  “He’ll be okay.”

Yuuri lets out a breath.  “I can’t believe that piece of shit told him I’m _dead,”_ he bites out, voice suddenly ice-cold as his grip on Phichit’s hand tightens.  He must be _furious._ Yuuri almost never actually shows anger out loud.  “That’s unnecessarily cruel to someone who’s already suffering.  God, Phichit, when we get to the ball, make sure I don’t wring his filthy neck.”

“Would you like me to do it for you?” Phichit asks neutrally.  “Because I would.”

“Hah!”  It’s a bitter and sharp excuse for a laugh.  “I wish.  It might be bad for our public rep, though.”

“Could be,” Phichit agrees.  “Maybe later.”

“You would have to beat me to it, later,” Yuuri mutters.  “What a fucking awful person.  God.”

Phichit squeezes his hand again, stroking his thumb over Yuuri’s knuckles soothingly.  To someone who can feel other people’s suffering, the idea of causing it needlessly must be _super_ abhorrent.  It’s bad enough to Phichit.  This Sergei is a piece of _work._   “He’s a nasty one,” he agrees.  “Would it make you feel better if we went over the plan again?”

Yuuri sighs, some of the tension and anger draining from his shoulders.  “Yeah, I guess,” he says.  “I’m a little tired.  It might help me stay up until they get here.”

Phichit grabs a pillow, puts it in his lap, and then hooks his hand around Yuuri’s head and unceremoniously yanks him sideways until his face is smushed into the pillow.  “Take a nap, dumbass dear.”

“Phichit,” Yuuri complains.  “Glasses, you jerk.”

“Oh, right,” Phichit says, letting a little teasing smugness into his voice.  “I forgot.  You know, with that twenty-twenty vision and all…”

“You suck,” Yuuri sighs.  He lifts his head, takes off his glasses, and tosses them haphazardly onto the couch on the other side of Phichit’s lap, then plants his face into the cushion again.  “Let’s go over the general steps?”

“I have an idea,” Phichit announces.  “I’ll tell them that we’re going to a ball with Amir and Leki disguised as our bodyguards and we’re stealing a hidden king and then hightailing it out of there after you get drunk and party hard, while you go to sleep.  Sound good?”

Yuuri blinks several times, clearly searching for words.  “That’s… something of a summary, yeah.”

“It’s accurate enough,” Phichit shrugs.  “I mean I know you’re not _actually_ partying hard, but everyone will think you are.”

Yuuri huffs out a little laugh.  “I guess,” he says.  “It’s just a convenient excuse, because Christophe already has such a reputation as a party-loving playboy, so if we use that as a diversion, you’ll have better cover…”

“Hey, I know how it works,” Phichit says, patting his cheek.  “Doesn’t mean I’m not gonna regret that I can’t watch you busting out all your smooth moves, my dude.  You think there’ll be a stripper pole?”

“This is a _king’s birthday celebration,”_ Yuuri groans.  “Do you _think_ there will be a stripper pole?”

Phichit grins wickedly.  “Well, I mean, it’s supposed to be _Viktor Nikiforov’s_ birthday celebration, and if we were dealing with the real one, I’m pretty sure he’d love to have it feature you on a stripper pole, so you never know, really.”

“You are terrible,” Yuuri groans even more exasperatedly, rolling over so he’s face-down.  “I am never, _ever_ pole dancing in front of a crowd like that.  No way.”

“Ooh, Yuuri!” Phichit coos.  “You mean you’d give him a _private show?_ Gasp!”

“I am never talking to you again,” Yuuri deadpans, voice muffled.  “We are not talking about—listen.  Listen.  I mean.  I’m not saying I _wouldn’t,_ but we are not—no.  Just—we’re not going there.  I know you.  The second I say anything on the topic you’ll never let me hear the end of it.”

“If you go to sleep you won’t have to hear me babbling,” Phichit says.  “Maybe that’s my ulterior motive.”

“So either I go to sleep or you tease me to death about pole-dancing for Viktor?” Yuuri asks mournfully.  “I don’t like these choices.”

“Tough luck,” Phichit says, patting his head with very little sympathy.  “Listen.  Take a nap.  You know I have to manhandle Leki and Amir when they get here, so you’ll be woken up no matter what, because even you can’t sleep through your pillow getting up and leaving you.”

“I’m not that heavy of a sleeper,” Yuuri complains.

“Then take a nap, and you’ll definitely wake up!” Phichit grins, point proven.  “You’re too sleepy to play word games with me, mister.  That’s a clear sign.”

Yuuri huffs.  But he rolls onto his side after a moment, curling up with one hand under his cheek, and Phichit pets his hair more soothingly.  “You really will wake me up, right?”

“I will,” he assures, because he can tell it’s important to Yuuri.  “Don’t worry.  I got you, fam.”

Yuuri sighs wearily.  “Okay,” he says.  “Thanks.”

He closes his eyes, and Phichit pulls out his phone, humming, and plays with his hair until Yuuri falls asleep.

* * *

 

[23:18] Phichit:  
yo

[23:19] don’t tell mari she’s in my phone as “yuuri’s sis”:  
?

[23:19] Phichit:  
yuuri told u abt the plan for the ball in ruthenia right?

[23:20] don’t tell mari she’s in my phone as “yuuri’s sis”:  
yea he told us at breakfast today  
why

[23:20] Phichit:  
just wonderin what u think abt it?

[23:21] don’t tell mari she’s in my phone as “yuuri’s sis”:  
mm. mixed feelings  
its important to him i know but i don’t like him putting himself out there as bait in ruthenia  
but i also know when his stubborn streak is rearin its head so its not like i can stop him lol  
as for political repercussions im not worried. running off to elvetia is harmless  
even if it is supposedly impromptu bc of a drunk invitation  
the one doin the impromptu drunk inviting will be giacometti so ill spin it as yuuri bein courteous by accepting. might even make it seem like yuuri is gettin thru to elvetian neutrality lol.  
overall it’s a good plan i just don’t want him gettin hurt

[23:24] Phichit:  
yeah, makes sense. i’ll keep as close of an eye on him as i can.  
if it goes south ill get him out with or without viktor.

[23:25] don’t tell mari she’s in my phone as “yuuri’s sis”:  
u read my mind lmao i was abt to ask u to do that

[23:25] Phichit:  
*dabs telepathically*

[23:25] don’t tell mari she’s in my phone as “yuuri’s sis”:  
when im queen my first law will be banning you from dabbing at me ever

[23:26] Phichit:  
D:  
*dabs in distress*

[23:26] don’t tell mari she’s in my phone as “yuuri’s sis”:  
:/

* * *

It is achingly familiar to be in Petersburg Palace’s grand ballroom, twirling about in a majestic [waltz](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fPp3Qh-GRqs) as opulent chandeliers glimmer overhead with golden light.  If Yuuri closes his eyes, he can almost pretend nothing is wrong.  He just whirls across the dance floor, smiling as Christophe spins him about.  It’s almost fun.  It would be, if seeing that impostor pretending to be his Vitya didn’t sour his mood every single time a flash of silver catches his eye.

“Darling, don’t be so grumpy,” Christophe croons.  “We’re at a party!”

“I’m smiling,” Yuuri pouts.  “I’m not grumpy.”

The skeptical look Christophe offers him really drives it home that a picture is worth a thousand words, and Yuuri can’t hold back a sheepish little laugh.

“Okay, so maybe I’m a little grumpy.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I am, too, and you don’t really _look_ it,” Christophe offers.  “Plus, anyone who can tell would probably assume it’s because of the awkwardness between you and … ‘Viktor’, these days.”

“I know,” Yuuri mutters.  The fact that he chose to represent Hinomoto at this ball despite the current tension between the two of them thanks to their split has been the talk of many a gossip rag.  He’s doing his best to ignore it and let Mari’s team handle the PR side of things, as she assured him they would. 

“Smile a little,” Christophe teases.  Yuuri rolls his eyes at him and makes a point of stepping on his foot as they turn into a promenade walk.

After the opening dance is over, Chris squeezes Yuuri’s hand and lingers for a moment before letting go. 

“We’ll start in two hours, yes?”

“Two to three,” Yuuri agrees, glancing at the large clock set into the wall above them.  “It really depends on when the party starts winding down, I suppose.”

“True enough.”  Chris offers his arm.  “Would you care to accompany me to get a drink, my dear Prince Katsuki?”

A little niggling feeling of trepidation settles into the pit of Yuuri’s stomach.  They’re doing this.  They’re doing this, for real, and there will be no going back.

He thinks of Vitya, of the tenderness with which he took care of him after the assassins came, of the way he would always try to make him laugh, of the simple affection he would offer without even thinking about it.  His chest tightens.  If he’s honest with himself, there was no going back a long, long time ago.  Ivanovich ensured his own downfall the second he laid a finger on Yuuri’s Vitya.

He’s ready.

He hooks his arm through Christophe’s and smiles, feeling stronger, more determined, and a bit chilly and untouchable.  “I would love to.”

They make their way to the refreshment table together, walking with proud heads held high.  Yuuri makes and holds eye contact with a few familiar Ruthenian courtiers, smiling coolly, and nods ever so slightly at them—the greeting of a confident prince amongst nobility who he outranks.  Christophe gets himself a fruity cocktail of some sort, while Yuuri picks up a champagne flute and sips it delicately.

“Mon cher,” Christophe drawls, shifting his weight to one leg and jutting his hip out just so.  “I am so glad you gave me your first dance of the night.”

“I am quite pleased that you asked me,” Yuuri answers, letting his voice drop lower than usual as he mirrors Christophe’s posture, seemingly uncaring and cavalier.  The two of them survey the ballroom and sip their drinks, and Yuuri reaches out with a very subtle, low-level general spell to increase the mixture of attraction and intimidation they give off.  He’s here to play a game, and he’s here to _win._ Let Alexei Ivanovich know it.

He stands with Chris for a few more minutes, exchanging light but pointed banter on topics ranging from current politics to certain guests’ fashion choices—not naming any names, of _course_ —and generally being a little aloof and a little petty.  They both offer chilly, sharp smiles to many of the Ruthenian nobles around them; Yuuri notices Baroness Miloslavskaya and tilts his head _just_ so.  He remembers her trying to be a pain in Viktor’s side all those days in court.

Frankly, he’s quite done with people trying to pain Viktor in any way.

Eventually, he sets his empty glass down and touches Chris’s arm.  “I think I should go pay my respects to the Crown Prince,” he says, because he’s certainly not here to pay respects to the false king, though he’ll have to say hello at some point just to preserve the idea that he’s not harboring any resentment because of their breakup.  “I’ll see you around, Christophe.”

“Enjoy yourself, Yuuri,” Christophe croons, winking, as he knocks back the rest of his drink.  He saunters off, and Yuuri pastes a distant smile on his face and strides through the crowd in search of Yuri.

When he spots him, Yuri’s back is turned.  He’s near the corner of the room, by a window, arms crossed as he talks to Prince Altin, and Yuuri’s heart swells.  Yuri had been _terrified_ last time they spoke, a hair’s breadth away from crying in outrage and fear about what he saw being done to Viktor.  He did cry when he told Yuuri about the assassination attempt, and Yuuri doesn’t think he’s ever wanted to hold the boy more than he did in that moment.  Ivanovich and his people are _heartless_ for doing that to him. 

Not wanting to startle him, Yuuri reaches for him empathically first, sending first a little greeting brush of warmth and then a wave of soothing affection to follow as he approaches.

“Yura,” he greets, voice low and warm.  Yuri whirls on the spot, his eyes widening, and then latches on like a limpet.

“Katsudon,” he breathes.  “Why didn’t you come find me when you got here?”

Yuuri squeezes him tight.  “Sorry,” he murmurs.  “I meant to, but I got caught up with Christophe and lost track of time…”

“You did _what.”_ Yuri’s voice goes flat and deadpan, and he pulls back to stare up at Yuuri disbelievingly.  “Not that I’m like, invested in your, uh, personal affairs, but what the fuck.”

Pink blossoms across Yuuri’s cheeks a moment too late as he realizes what it sounds like he said, given Christophe’s party-loving playboy persona.  “No, no—not like _that,”_ he hisses, burying his face in his hands.  “We were talking.  About serious stuff.  Not… Yura, _no._ Not.  That.”

Prince Altin lets out something that might be a snort.

“Yeah?” Yuri huffs.  “What’s so important you didn’t come see _me?”_

He’s pouting a little bit, and Yuuri guiltily hugs him again.  “Sorry, sorry, Yura,” he says, hands together as he bows slightly in contriteness.  “Forgive me.  We were discussing last-minute details about the ball, that’s all.”

Yuri’s hands go to his hips.  “That’s all?” he echoes.  “What was so important about this stupid party?”

Yuuri wraps an arm around his shoulders, nods to Prince Altin, and starts to walk in the general direction of the secluded alcoves, keeping his voice low.  “Christophe is going to invite you to Elvetia tonight, as an afterthought, when he invites me.  Say yes.  We’ll leave tonight in and of itself.  If it makes it more believable for you to agree if tipsy, be seen with alcohol.”

Yuri, to his credit, doesn’t break his stride or look confused.  Yuuri can’t help but be proud of him.  They didn’t tell him about the planning, worried that his incoming communications might be monitored, or that Ivanovich might catch him with his mental guard down.  As much as it pained Yuuri to think, Christophe was right in that telling Yuri about their king-stealing heist plans would have been a liability.

“Why are we going to Elvetia?” he asks instead, as casually as if they’re discussing the weather.  Prince Altin falls into step at his other side, neatly preventing any of the partygoers from getting too close to him.  Yuuri casts him an approving look over Yuri’s head.

Yuuri smiles slightly.  “We’re taking back a crown,” he answers, voice light.  “One step at a time.”

The shock is a little evident in the tilt of Yuri’s brow, and more so in the sudden spike in surprise from his mind, but he doesn’t gasp or blurt anything out.  Yuuri is very proud, indeed.  Little Yura has come far from the angry boy who would spit out every little thought on his mind.  “Tonight?”

“Tonight,” Yuuri agrees. 

Rika, Amir, and Leki are all in the ballroom, near the fringes as bodyguards usually stay.  Phichit has been hanging around with them a little, particularly Leki and Amir, but he’s been doing a good job of pretending to mingle with the crowd too.  They still have a few hours to kill, a good deal of partying to enjoy, and some alcohol to make a show of drinking, just to sell the idea that at the end of the night, a drunken Christophe will sweep Yuuri into a dance and invite him skiing in Elvetia, and Yuuri, tipsy himself, will pull Yuri into things. 

Meanwhile, Phichit, Leki, and Amir will slip past the elemental barrier around the abandoned guardhouse by shadow-phasing past it, where they’ll rescue Viktor and spirit him away onto Yuuri’s sky-carriage, where Rani waits to heal him and make sure the drugs that Yuri saw being pumped into him don’t have lasting damage. 

After this critical step, which with any luck will go smoothly and quietly—with three of the most skilled shadow assassins in the world, Yuuri is fairly hopeful—Phichit will reenter the ballroom, which will signal Yuuri to let Christophe know that they should start the charade.  It’ll end in all of them leaving the party and going directly to Elvetia, which will certainly be a topic of gossip for a few weeks to come, but that should cover up Viktor’s disappearance quite nicely.  

Ivanovich and Sergei won’t know what hit them.  Yuuri can’t wait to see their plans fall apart around them.

He mingles with the crowd, dances some more, and lets the music swirl through him, keeping close tabs on Yuri and Chris the whole time.  It’s no secret that he and Prince Plisetsky became close during his time here, and he’s certainly planning to play up that aspect of things during the beginning of the ball.  The more he’s seen being affectionate with Yuri, the less suspicious it’ll be when he “drunkenly” insists that Yuri comes with him to Elvetia later tonight.

So he hugs the boy and ruffles his hair, laughing when it gets his hand smacked away, and pulls him into dance after dance.  It’s lucky that part of their plans include letting Yuuri dote on him, because honestly, he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t have been able to resist smothering him in affection, not after talking him down from those states of panic over the phone.  Yuri has been through so much lately.  He doesn’t deserve any of it, and Yuuri just wants to keep him safe for a while.

“I haven’t seen Mila yet,” he comments, standing to the side later as they wait for Prince Altin to return from his dance with King Leroy.  “Or, well.  I saw her, but I haven’t talked to her yet.”

“Don’t,” Yuri says, and Yuuri looks down at him in surprise.  “She won’t want to be seen talking to you, Katsudon.”

“What do you mean?” he asks, bemused.

Yuri sighs.  “She’s been hanging out with Ryabova and Miloslavskaya lately,” he replies.  There’s worry emanating from him, not betrayal, and it only takes a moment for the answer to click in Yuuri’s mind.  Mila is trying to spy through court circles, and being seen socializing with Yuuri, who is clearly an ally of the Nikiforovs, would damage her credibiity in the ranks of those opposing the King’s family.

“I could let her snub me,” he muses.  “That might help her out.”

“Dunno if she’d be afraid to do that if she doesn’t think you know what she’s doing.”  Yuri shakes his head.  “It’s probably better to just leave her alone.”

Yuuri hums.  “She and Princess Sara are still courting, right?”

Yuri nods.  Yuuri looks out over the floor and sees the princess in question dancing with her brother, both of them laughing, and muses to himself.  Princess Sara is most likely their best way to communicate with Mila, then—she’s known for being a social butterfly, so the fact that she talks to Yuuri wouldn’t necessarily make anyone suspicious of Mila despite their romantic involvement.  And there’s no way Ivanovich can be tapping into Princess Sara’s communications, not without risking a major international incident.

“Good to know,” he finally says, and they leave it at that.

Another fast waltz begins to play, and Yuri all but hauls Prince Altin off the moment he returns.  Yuuri is startled into a laugh when Prince Altin sends him a look of fond exasperation, the kind shared by co-commiserators, over Yuri’s head as they walk away together.

Left to his own devices, Yuuri considers the party.  It’s getting close to its zenith, full of people laughing and dancing and mingling at the tables set up around the dance floor.  He looks around until he spots Christophe, dancing with Prince Nekola, and Phichit, laughing at something one of the duchesses in the Crispinos’ retinue said.  It’s almost time.

He starts threading his way through the crowd, humming to himself as he picks up his third champagne flute of the night, and makes his way toward the Crispino twins, smiling pleasantly as he approaches.  He hasn’t spoken to Prince Michele in ages.  Hopefully he’s forgotten that stunt from a few months ago, here in this same room—god, Yuuri can feel his cheeks getting redder just thinking about it.  At least he can blame that on the alcohol.

“Good evening, Your Highnesses!” he greets, approaching.

“Ah, Prince Yuuri!” says Prince Michele, and he smiles.  He actually smiles.  Warmly, too.  Yuuri can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen this man smile properly at events like this, and his heart sinks.  There is no way Prince Michele has forgotten.

He takes a large sip of his champagne.

“It’s good to see you again!”  Princess Sara beams, and Yuuri could thank her for existing at this very moment, because this would have been very awkward, otherwise.  He’s technically single now.  God.  He needs some _vodka._ “How are you doing?”

“I’m doing well!” he smiles back.  “And yourself?”

“Pretty great!” she says, laughing.  “Mickey’s tired out from dancing, can you believe?”

Yuuri chuckles.  “Well,” he says, smiling at Prince Michele, “from what I saw, you two looked lovely dancing out there.  It takes energy to be a good dancer, you know!”

Sara puffs out her cheeks.  “I still have energy!  Are you calling me a bad dancer, Prince Yuuri?” she teases.  “For shame!”

“I would never,” Yuuri says quickly.  “All I was doing was offering an explanation for why your brother might be tired!  Viktor would always get tired too fast when I wanted to dance with him, too.”

He doesn’t look directly at Prince Michele, but hopefully reminding them that he was, until recently, engaged, will stave off some of the awkwardness.

Princess Sara grabs his arm.  “Well!  We can leave my silly brother here to catch his breath and go dance, then!” she decides, all but dragging him away.  “See you, Mickey!”

Yuuri manages to shoot Prince Michele an awkwardly apologetic look and a shrug before being pulled onto the dance floor for a foxtrot.  Princess Sara takes the lead and guides him into a feather step and a heel turn, some of the levity draining from her face as worry clouds in her eyes.

“Sorry for dragging you off like that,” she murmurs, just barely audible over the music.  “I just needed to talk to you.  I’m worried about Mila, and I know you two were sort of close while you lived here—I’m sorry if I’m overstepping boundaries or making anything awkward, by the way!—and she’s just been… I don’t know.  Very down lately.  And quiet.  I don’t know—do you have any idea what’s going on?  She’s been busy but she keeps telling me she’s fine…”

Yuuri looks at her, surprised.  So she doesn’t know?  Maybe Mila just hasn’t felt secure enough to tell her yet.  “Have you asked her face-to-face?”

Sara shakes her head.  “She said she had something to tell me, earlier tonight, but Baroness Miloslavskaya pulled her off to talk to someone before she had the chance.  Should I pry?  I was thinking we should just enjoy tonight…”

They turn into a series of grapevines down the long wall of the ballroom, and Yuuri offers a reassuring smile.  “Ask her,” he says.  “I… don’t think the answer will be what you expect.  She’s getting herself into some… ah… delicate political situations, shall we say.”

He doesn’t know how much to explain, not when so much hinges on the secrecy of his own knowledge of Viktor’s state and location.  After Viktor gets to safety, he’d be willing to come clean about the entire story, but while Viktor is still being held captive, he’s … hesitant.

After tonight, he’ll be more honest.

“Oh,” Princess Sara murmurs.  “So it’s… oh, I see.  I’ll ask her, then.  Thank you.”

“No problem,” Yuuri says honestly.  “I hope she doesn’t try to hold you at arm’s length to keep you safe from the bleed-over of court problems.  She should be alright, though.  I trust her to be smart about whatever she does.”

“She’s a very smart lady,” Sara agrees, cracking a smile.  “I’ll tell her to be honest with me and smack her with a pillow if she pulls any of that noble sacrifice silliness.  Thanks for the heads-up!”

Yuuri laughs.  “No problem,” he says again.  “And Your Highness—feel free to keep in touch.”

It’s a neutral phrase, just letting her know that Yuuri is theoretically interested in pursuing a cordial relationship, but in the context of Mila’s affairs, he hopes Princess Sara interprets it to mean that she’s welcome to pursue active friendship, should she so desire, because of their mutual affection for Mila. 

She doesn’t know it yet, but she will likely be pivotal in Mila’s ability to communicate the results of whatever she may discover at the heart of the opposition in Ruthenia’s court.  Yuuri has a strong feeling that Mila won’t be able to talk directly to anyone known to support the Nikiforovs at all, not when the Babichevas have a history of close ties to the crown.  She’ll need to very obviously cut those ties in order to gain any modicum of trust from the treasonous factions.

“Oh!  I will definitely take you up on that,” Princess Sara says, smiling brightly.  “If you’re ever interested in visiting Víteliú, let me know, Prince Yuuri!  I know things were a little tense because of the alliance with Ruthenia, but I don’t see why we can’t pursue more diplomatic solutions.”

“I agree,” Yuuri says.  “And should you ever want to visit Hinomoto, my family would be honored to host you.  I hope I don’t sound like a tourist brochure, but Hasetsu is lovely, especially in the springtime.”

Sara beams.  “It sounds delightful already,” she says.  “Perhaps after your alliance gets settled, we can all have a nice little cultural exchange, between the two of our countries.”

The alliance will more or less have to be turned on its head and renegotiated from the ground up once the treason in Ruthenia gets blown open, but Yuuri just smiles vacantly and nods as if he doesn’t know he’s dancing in a giant powder keg of a court.  The charade can only last so long.

Satisfied that he’s done what he can to help Mila out, he bids Princess Sara a friendly farewell after the dance ends, then reaches across the ballroom to find Phichit’s familiar presence, standing next to Prince Ji and the Vespuccian representative.

He repeats the process and locates Christophe, sending him a little mental prod to let him know that he’s going to give Phichit the cue, then walks over, more champagne in hand.  The charade is starting in earnest.  “Hi, Phichit!”

Phichit gives him a wavery smile, just like they practiced.  “Hey!”

“Are you enjoying the party?” he asks, sipping his champagne.

“Yeah!” Phichit says.  “It’s… really big, though.”

Yuuri makes a sympathetic face.  “You can always go step out for some air if you’re feeling overwhelmed,” he says, offering the supposed wisdom of experience to his friend. 

“Yeah,” Phichit says again.  “I think I might do that.  Good idea, Yuuri.”

“Do you want me to come?” Yuuri asks.  “Or do you want a minute alone?”

“Um,” Phichit considers, doing a pretty convincing job of pretending he’s not sure.  Prince Ji actually looks concerned, as if he feels guilty for not noticing that Phichit might have been a little uncomfortable in the grandeur of the ballroom.  “I think I’ll just go alone.  That’s okay?”

“Of course it is!” Yuuri says.  He sips his champagne again, considers where his levels of inhibition are, and figures he should probably call this his last drink of the night.  Dancing and spacing them out have helped him burn through most of the alcohol, but he wants to keep his wits about him.  He just needs to _look_ flushed and tipsy.  So he flaps a hand in a sort of undignified fashion and grins more brightly than he might have otherwise.  “Go breathe!”

Phichit laughs and agrees.  “Okay, okay.  I’m going.  I’ll be back in a little bit!”

He says his goodbyes to his two companions, and Yuuri offers them both a silly little grin, then makes his way back into the crowd.  He has to mingle, play up his tipsy persona, and be ready for the grand finale of the night, when Christophe will issue a seemingly-impromptu invitation to Elvetia.

Before he leaves, he should go pay his respects to the false-Viktor.

Just the thought is enough to sober him up again, a knot of cold anger settling in the pit of his stomach.  That miserable wretch of a man impersonating his darling thinks his cruelty will go unpunished, and that makes Yuuri furious.  He won’t get away with this.

He sees Sergei—he refuses to even think of the man as false-Viktor, honestly, because Viktor is far too good to be put in the same sentence as this piece of filth—standing with Ivanovich near one of the refreshment tables, and presses his lips together for a moment.

Okay.

All he has to do is be seen speaking to them.  That way nobody can say he snubbed the King of Ruthenia at his own celebration.

While he’s at it, he wants to let them both know that they don’t have any power over him anymore.  He’s not afraid.  They can’t touch him, and they should know—they should know that now, things have changed, and if anyone should be afraid, it is _them._

The cold anger simmering in his core is stronger.  Good.  It’ll burn through him like ice when he talks to the two of them.  At least they’re together.  It’ll be two birds with one stone.

Yuuri approaches, head held high and shoulders back, letting pride for himself, his Vitya, and his homeland carry him.  He will not be intimidated.  Not this time.

“Your Majesty,” he greets, voice a little cooler than a plain neutral.  “You’ve thrown quite the party for yourself.  I hope you enjoy being twenty-eight.”

“Thank you, Prince Katsuki,” Sergei says in Viktor’s voice, seeming slightly taken aback.  That’s fair.  Yuuri was much, much warmer to him the last time they spoke.  He regrets ever thinking a single soft thought toward this man, even though he didn’t _know_ it wasn’t his Vitya.  “I hope you’re enjoying yourself.”

“Of course I am,” Yuuri says, drier than the wind cutting through a frozen wasteland.  “How could I not?”

He pauses, turns slightly, and has to smother a flash of glee when he gets to look down on Ivanovich, who is still seated.  The man raises a single bushy eyebrow up at him.

“Good evening, Your Highness,” he says.  “Nice to see you around here again.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re enjoying the novelty of my presence here,” Yuuri agrees as sweetly as he can.  Is it passive-aggressive to respond to a jab at his supposed heartbreak with a dig at the fact that he _knows_ Ivanovich is the reason he left?  Perhaps.

But he’s just getting started.

“Lord Ivanovich,” he says coolly, imagining Viktor sprawled in the throne at his mother’s side as he presided over his court and doing his best to channel that same kind of casual elegance and easy command of power.  “A word, please.”

Sergei flashes a surprised look at Ivanovich, who raises his other eyebrow, but gets to his feet.  “Of course, Your Highness.”

Yuuri has to admit, he takes a measure of vindictive glee in leading the way to the exact same alcove that Ivanovich cornered him in, almost a year ago.  How the tables have turned, now.  The tide is coming back in, and Yuuri is not going to be swept aside.

They settle down, and Yuuri rests his arms on the table, leaning forward.  “You’ve played your game well, my lord,” he says.  “Hardly anyone knows just what you’ve done to the King.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Ivanovich says flatly.  “If you’re going to make assumptions based on a single conversation you eavesdropped upon, with no context, mind you, at least speak more clearly, son.  It’ll get you far.”

“Don’t patronize me,” Yuuri warns, his eyes flashing.  “But if you’d like me to speak plainly, very well.  Simply put, _Lord_ Ivanovich, I am not the same frightened little prince you tried to intimidate into submission a year ago.  You disparaged my country’s commitment to honor, and while you are entitled to your opinion, I am as well to mine.  You are a dishonorable man and a coward, and you have no control over me anymore.  I hope, for your sake, that you try to undo the damage you’ve done.”

“Insults will get you nowhere,” Ivanovich says.  His mental shield is still up, but it’s not as strong as it could be, and that makes sense, if he’s been hiding the fact that he even has magic at all.  Yuuri can tell that he’s somewhere between nervous and irritated.  “If you think you’re hard to intimidate these days, congratulations on finally growing a backbone.  I was always sure you had it in you.”

“I’m afraid that _insults will get you nowhere,”_ Yuuri retorts, a little gleeful when he reads a muted flash of irritation through the cracks in Ivanovich’s mental defenses.  He still has his empathy as an advantage in this conversation, though he’s sure using it actively rather than passively would give him away and cause Ivanovich to tighten his barriers. 

“Just say what you want to say and be done with it,” Ivanovich finally says.  “I understand you may be testy about your love life, but the King wants nothing more to do with you, so you should respect that.”

“Oh,” Yuuri says, tapping his chin thoughtfully.  “Since when have you cared so deeply for the well-being of the King?  Last I heard, you were quite vocal in your opposition to his policies, since he planned to continue much of what his mother started.”

“He and I have spoken extensively,” Ivanovich says, “and he has since changed his mind on many subjects.  Whatever you’re trying to imply that might be otherwise, I would suggest that you watch yourself.  Again, _you_ are the one who eavesdropped misheard one conversation.”

Ah, yes.  If he admits knowing that Yuuri received a call from Yuri about Viktor being replaced by a fake, he admits to having bugged Yuri’s rooms.  He’s in a bit of a sticky situation.

Not to worry.  Yuuri can un-stick him right now.

“Lord Ivanovich,” Yuuri says, straightening and looking him dead in the eyes.  “Let me be crystal clear with you.  You may want to dismiss me as someone grasping at straws to justify a bad breakup.  It would make the easiest story to spin to media, if you tried to expose me.  But I am more than you give me credit for, and I know what you did to Viktor Nikiforov.  That knowledge does not end with me.  You have no power over me, and if you know what’s best for you, you will try to right the wrongs you’ve done, before it’s too late for you.”

He stands up, steps toward the exit, and pauses, one hand brushing the curtain.  Then he turns and looks over his shoulder and pins Ivanovich with the coldest glare he can muster, thinking of Viktor the entire time.

“And you will _pay_ for what you did to him.”

Yuuri lets the curtain fall behind him as he walks away, very satisfied in the knowledge that the stunned look on Ivanovich’s face will stay with him for a long, long time.

* * *

There’s a little thrill that comes with being on a mission, no matter how many one goes on or how professional one might be.  Phichit figures it’s mostly just anticipation and apprehension mixed together, but then again, melting into the shadows with two of your best buddies and melting across a darkened courtyard, invisible to all but the most trained of eyes, is just _fun._

It's easy to get rid of the guards posted innocuously in the area around the supposedly-abandoned old barrack.  To a shadow assassin, unsuspecting royal guards are child’s play, let alone to _three_ of them.  They try to avoid fatalities, purely to avoid attracting media attention tomorrow, but that still proves simple enough.

They’ve been over this plan many times over the course of the past few days, the three of them gathered around a table discussing logistics based on the layout of the courtyard available from satellite pictures with addendums from Yuuri.  Now, they’re actually _here._

As discussed, the moment they phase through the elemental barrier (one reason shadow assassins are so feared is that there are some tricky, advanced spells that make just about any barrier useless, including magical ones—in this case, the strongest of winds still can’t blow away a shadow), Leki peels off from the group to stand guard, ready to signal should any alarming persons appear.  Phichit and Amir continue into the building, spotting the trap door with ease.

“You have Rani’s charm, right?” Phichit asks as they leap down into the passage below.  Amir favors him with a very dry look and rolls his eyes.

 _No,_ he signs, his hands dripping with sarcasm.  _I must have forgotten it at home._

Phichit grins, though it’s hard to tell in the dimness when his face is mostly covered by dark cloth.  They move as a unit down the corridor, briefly scanning each cell until they find the one that’s occupied.

Viktor Nikiforov looks frail and weak, compared to how strong he seemed last time Phichit saw him.  He’s curled into a little ball under a thin blanket on a bed that’s little more than a glorified cot, shivering, eyes squeezed shut.  He’s mumbling to himself, too.  Phichit is both filled with pity and disturbed to see him like this.  His chest gets a little tight when he hears a strangled, slurred _Oh, Yuuri._

But they’re on a job, and there’s no time for emotions.  The lock on the door poses no problem to the two of them—lockpicking is easy when you can just manipulate the lack of light inside the lock itself to turn for you—and they enter the cell.  Phichit lets Amir take the lead.

Rani made them a charm with a spell for a healing sleep, when Phichit pointed out that getting a semi-conscious or delirious man across any given area in secret might be difficult, if his cooperation and silence couldn’t be guaranteed.  She taught Amir how to activate it, saying that it’s just a general and simple spell, and added that once active it wouldn’t last forever.  That’s fine, though.  They know how to move fast.

Amir slips the charmed bracelet out of his pocket and takes Viktor’s arm.  Viktor cries out and jolts awake.

“No!” he cries.  “No more!  Leave me alone!”

“Be calm, Your Majesty,” Phichit says, while Amir clasps the bracelet on the panicking king’s wrist.  “Everything will be fine.”

“No,” Viktor mumbles, but the spell is fast-acting and he goes limp quickly.  It takes them a moment longer to carefully remove the IV drip from his other arm—the fire charm is unexpected, but easily bypassed with the right tools—but then they’re ready to make their escape.

Hefting the king’s deadweight over his shoulder, Phichit follows Amir back down the hall.  Leki is waiting, still on guard, with nothing to report—one guard walked past, apparently, but noticed nothing.  Lucky him.  He didn’t have to die.

Most missions don’t involve kidnapping, but carrying an unconscious body is only a slight hassle more than any real difficulty for three highly-skilled assassins.  They work silently, slipping through the shadows and carrying Viktor back to the palace skyport, where Rani waits aboard Yuuri’s sky-carriage.

Phichit is almost surprised when they arrive without incident, but not really.  The three of them working together are a nigh-unstoppable team.  They know what they’re doing.  And they’re damn good at it.

“Is he gonna be okay?” he asks, standing next to the bed they’ve laid out for Viktor.  Rani, sitting next to it and already working some spells, looks up.

“He’ll be fine,” she says, smiling slightly.  “They had him sedated, I think, and I think we can safely assume they had him on elemental blockers, but with a little time all of the damage caused should be fully reversible.”

“Oh, thank god,” Phichit sighs, relieved.

“He’ll be fine,” Rani repeats.  “Prince Katsuki … tell him not to worry too much, okay?”

Amir silently walks up behind her and puts his hands on her shoulders, leaning down to kiss the top of her head.  Rani closes her eyes for a moment, then sighs and gets back to work.

“Good work, guys,” Phichit says, stretching.  “I’ll tell Yuuri not to worry, but he might not listen.  Anyway, I guess I should go get him.”

The hardest part of the plan is done.  Now all he needs to do is slip back into his fancy party clothes and go let Yuuri know they’re ready to roll out.

Once he’s properly attired again, he phases back toward the ballroom, emerging from the shadows near the area of the garden where a few guests are mingling, away from the light and noise inside.  He gives them cursory smiles and little waves on his way back inside.

As he expects, Yuuri is in the middle of the dance floor, face flushed and laughing brightly while whirling through a quickstep with Chris, who is grinning broadly, equally red in the face.  They look like they’ve been dancing for a while, attracting a decent amount of attention from people around them.  Phichit has to admire the careful line they both are toeing with this act—they’re making it clear they’re being silly and drunk, but they’re being careful not to be obnoxious.  The end result is a ballroom that looks on with amused fondness, like the two of them are silly, errant children.

It’s ingenious.  Nobody would ever suspect them of smuggling a king across a border tonight.

Since he knows Yuuri’s empathy strengthens with proximity, he makes his way as close to the edge of the dance floor as he can without actually going onto it, and trusts Yuuri will handle the rest. 

Sure enough, Yuuri and Chris stop their carefree twirling at the end of the song, and Yuuri fans himself.  “Chriiiiistoooooophe,” he complains.  “It’s so _hot!”_

“It’s winter!” Chris answers.  “There’s snow on the mountains!  Go find a mountain, Yuuri.”

“There are no mountains here,” Yuuri says, pouting adorably.  Chris looks incredibly put-out for a moment, but then he brightens again.  Huh.  They’re both doing a very convincing acting job.  Color Phichit impressed.

“There are mountains in Elvetia!” Chris exclaims, grabbing Yuuri’s hands.  “Come home with me.  Let’s go skiing, Yuuri!  Say you’ll come!”

“I’d _love_ to!” Yuuri gasps, actually jumping up and down.  He turns to Prince Altin and Prince Plisetsky, who are standing nearby and looking rather bemused.  “Yura!  You have to come too!  I missed you too much!  Come skiing with us!  Bring your friend!”  He flaps a hand at Prince Altin and squints.  “Oh!  Yes!  Prince Altin!  Let’s all go skiing, okay?  Okay!”

He’s definitely a little tipsy—Phichit can tell he’s giggling to himself, but he’s clearly kept his wits about him.  Good.  So everything _is_ working.

“What the hell,” Prince Plisetsky huffs.  “I’m not—”

“Oh, come now, live a little,” Chris cajoles.  “It’ll be _fun!_ You like fun things, right?”

“I’d like to go skiing,” Prince Altin says thoughtfully.  “If you’re sure you won’t regret the invitation later, Prince Giacometti.”

“Come one, come all!” Chris cheers.  “The more the merrier!  I’d love to have you both!  Let’s go.”

“Ski trip!” Yuuri cheers.  He hooks one arm through Prince Plisetsky’s and the other through Chris’s.  “Ski trip, ski trip!  Let’s go!”  Then he seems to remember himself and twirls neatly about to wave at Sergei.  “Bye!”

This is Phichit’s cue.  He hurries forward as if he just got back and is very confused.  “Hey!  Yuuri!  What’s going on?”

“We’re going skiing!” Yuuri informs him, humming.  “Here, hold this.”  He pushes Prince Plisetsky at Phichit, who has to swallow a laugh as he catches the boy and quickly steadies him and lets go.  “Let’s go!  It’s too _hot_ in here!”

“It’ll take us a while to get to Elvetia,” Phichit warns, as the token sober friend, but they all start walking as a big group, shuffling to the exit slowly like any other group of revelers leaving a party.  They’re not the first people to call it a night, either, though they _are_ the only ones to announce they’re leaving the country right now because the dance floor is too hot.  “You might not be hot by then.”

“Ski trip,” Yuuri insists, and Phichit laughs, leaving it at that.

When they get out of the ballroom, all demeanors shift.  Yuuri stops grinning and giggling, instead looking at Phichit anxiously.

“How is he?”

“He’s asleep,” Phichit answers.  “Rani says he’ll be fine after a little while.  He mostly just needs to rest for a bit and then exercise to work himself back up to his normal strength.  But don’t worry.  He should be fine.”

Yuuri, Chris, and Prince Plisetsky all breathe sighs of relief.  The rest of the walk is silent.

Plisetsky and Altin end up on Yuuri’s sky-carriage with them, while Chris peels off to go back to his own with a promise to see them soon.  Yuuri makes a beeline for the room on-board where Viktor is resting, while Plisetsky and Altin hang back, clearly feeling awkward and wondering if they should give him space or go see Viktor now, too.

“Hang on,” Leki frowns, a little confused, and Phichit’s attention snaps to him.  “When did we get the dog…?”

Phichit blinks.  There is, indeed, a brown poodle that he recognizes as Makkachin from all Yuuri’s pictures, curled up on a chair.  What?  Did he get here while Phichit was getting Yuuri from the ballroom?

“He’s with us,” Prince Altin says calmly, and Plisetsky nods affirmatively.  “Don’t worry about it.”

“I mean, okay.  He’s cute!”  Leki beams, and Makkachin’s tail thumps the back of the seat lightly.  “Is there a reason we’re stealing him?”

“I’m not leaving him with Sergei,” Prince Plisetsky spits.  “That asshole doesn’t deserve a dog.  And that’s coming from a _cat person.”_

He says this, and yet reaches out to pat Makkachin’s head.  Incredible.  Phichit snorts to himself and lets them all talk, going to check on Yuuri to make sure he’s going to be okay, but pauses in the doorway.

Yuuri is perched on Viktor’s bedside, stroking his hair back from his face with an expression so tender Phichit feels like he’s almost intruding just by watching.  Viktor sighs in his sleep, and Yuuri leans down to kiss his forehead.

“Hey,” Phichit murmurs, coming forward.  When Yuuri looks up, there are tears glistening in his eyes.  “You okay?”

“He’s safe now,” Yuuri breathes, caressing Viktor’s cheek.  “Thank you, thank you, thank you—oh, god, yes, I’m fine.  Now that he’s here, I’m—I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Phichit says, resting a hand on his best friend’s shoulder for a moment.  “I’ll leave you with him for a bit.  Let me know if you need anything, alright?”

“Yeah,” Yuuri says.  He shifts a little closer to Viktor, stroking his hair again, and bites his lip.  “I will.”

“Okay,” Phichit says again.  He squeezes Yuuri’s shoulder and withdraws, relieved more than anything, and goes to find his friends.  He pauses in the doorway just once, looking back before closing it, and can’t help but smile slightly as Yuuri takes Viktor’s hand in both of his and squeezes tight.

Everything, he thinks, is going to be alright.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEE HEE HEE. it has Happened. the even summarized as the Great Kingstealing Heist of 2k17 in my notes has finally come to pass.
> 
> 1\. goodies!!!! eve drew [this AMAZING viktor](http://adreamingsongbird.tumblr.com/post/165231397220/evermoriver-i-am-no-king-i-have-no-throne-from) (look at the details i cry!) and maimer drew this [absolutely gorgeous viktor and yuri](http://adreamingsongbird.tumblr.com/post/165231315335/maimerart-omg-chapter-14-of-the-rules-for) that i'm still screaming about. thank you so much!!!!!! i love everything here!!!!!
> 
> 2\. im rly going to try and finish trfl soon but i may have to put it on hold while i do nanowrimo, so uh i guess that's just a heads up!
> 
> 3\. thank you all for the birthday wishes!! i appreciate each and every one of them ♥
> 
> 4\. i FORGOT to mention so i'm coming back to edit this note but!!! the song that i took the chapter title from is [paper boats](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vFrjMq4aL-g) from the transistor ost!! it's a lovely song that's been on my trfl list for ages and also i highly recommend the game ;D
> 
> next time: lay your sweet and weary head upon my shoulder and rest for a while. i will not let the darkness in.


	16. like a river flows, surely, to the sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for some discussion of traumatic experience and distress as a result thereof!

 

The first thing Viktor really notices when he starts waking up is that he’s tired.  He’s tired, and kind of achey, and overall just generally miserable.  This stupid cell and the fucking blood-drawings and everything— _god,_ he doesn’t care about anything anymore.  He barely moves and his body aches and he just feels so numb and empty and nothing is worthwhile anymore and can’t they just kill him already?

A shadow assassin was sent after Yuuri.  They sent a shadow assassin to murder his Yuuri, his darling, his life, his heart.  He…

He wants to stop thinking.  He’s so cold. 

But sleep doesn’t come, no matter how long he lies there, numb and uncaring, and eventually he groans, rolling onto his side—

Wait.

He can turn without anything tugging in his arm.

The bed is softer than he remembers it being.

_What?_

Viktor’s eyes fly open, and he stares at his unfamiliar surroundings as panic rises in his throat.  Where is he?  He’s in a bed, a real bed with soft blankets and many pillows, and there’s a window and moonlight is spilling in, and there’s a bandage on his arm instead of a needle, and _where is he what’s going on?_

He sits up, oddly terrified, and lets out an involuntary gasp as dizziness assails him, making him blindly throw out a hand to support himself as his vision swims.  There’s a shuffling sound and the mattress shifts—is he not alone?  Oh god, who’s there, is it Zhanna again or is it Sergei, who is close to him—and suddenly a lamp clicks on.  The bedroom floods with soft golden light.

“Vitya!” a familiar voice exclaims, a little slurred from sleep in a way that’s not just familiar but _painfully_ so.

Viktor freezes.

He blinks a few times, hesitating (why?), and slowly turns away from the window to face the right side of the bed.

“Yu—”

His throat is too dry and his voice cracks.  He licks his lips, swallows, and tries again.

“Yuuri?”

“You’re awake!” Yuuri cries, and the next thing he knows he’s being pulled into a tight hug, Yuuri’s arms warm and solid and _real_ as they wrap around his shoulders and hold him close.  “Oh, Vitya…”

“How… what…?” Viktor whispers, his hands slowly catching up to reality and finding their way to Yuuri’s back.  Yuuri, who is… here.  Wherever “here” is.  In the same bed as him.  What happened?  How did he get here?  When did—how did Yuuri _find_ him?  “You’re here?”

“I’m right here,” Yuuri assures, nuzzling his neck.  Tears prick at Viktor’s eyes.  How long did he spend in that awful cell, that a simple act of affection like this is making him want to cry?

And Yuuri is here.  Yuuri is alive.

Maybe that, too, is why he wants to cry.  They really told him… he thought…

His fingers curl into the silk of Yuuri’s shirt.  “You’re—you’re not hurt?”

“What?”  Yuuri seems confused.  “Why would I— _oh.”_   His arms tighten, pressing Viktor closer protectively.  “No.  They lied to you, sweetheart.  I’m absolutely fine.”

Viktor lets out a breath.

“…Am I dreaming?”

The question slips out before he can stop it, and he freezes in Yuuri’s embrace, hunching in on himself.  If this is a dream, he doesn’t want to know—he doesn’t want to wake up, he just wants to live this dream-life out in ignorance, he just—he wants—he can’t—

“No,” Yuuri murmurs.  “No, Vitya, this is real.  You’re safe now.”

“I don’t understand,” he whispers, but if Yuuri says he’s safe and this is real, he trusts him.  He relaxes into his chest, pressing closer because he’s still exhausted and sore and feels awful, but somehow just being with Yuuri again makes all of it worlds better.  He doesn’t have to know what happened, so long as Yuuri stays with him.

Yuuri lets out a slow breath.  “Okay, well, um… we’re in Elvetia, first of all,” he says, then yawns.  “Mm.  Sorry.  Anyway.  The ball for your birthday was yesterday, so Christophe and Yura and Phichit and I stole you away and left Ruthenia, but you slept through the entire thing.  Oh—how are you feeling, dear?”

They all came together—for him?  Something strains in Viktor’s chest, and he has to blink back tears all over again.  Even so, he’s pretty sure Yuuri can hear the roughness of his voice when he rasps, “I love you,” and buries his face in his shoulder.

“I love you, too,” Yuuri says immediately, his fingers starting to rub little circles between his shoulderblades.  “Oh, god, I was so worried about you…”

“They told me they killed you,” Viktor blurts out.  He’s still not entirely convinced he’s not dreaming, but he trusts Yuuri, and he doesn’t want to wake up.  “They said—they told me they sent an assassin…”

Yuuri lets out a breath, slow and measured.  “They… did send one,” he murmurs, and Viktor tenses.  Yuuri squeezes him tight in response, trying to soothe him.  “No, no, shhh, shh, it’s okay.   They sent to Xian, and Phichit found the contract.  I’m fine, Vitya, nobody hurt me.  That piece of—the man who told you I died was just being needlessly cruel.  I’m fine.  Shhh, shh… it’s okay.  It’s okay.”

He starts rocking Viktor gently back and forth, sitting there nestled among the blankets, and Viktor tries his hardest not to burst into tears.  He just wants to _cry._   This all seems too good to be true.  “You—you’re sure?”

“I promise,” Yuuri says warmly.  “I promise.  Sleep, you need rest, you’ll feel better.  I’ll be right here in the morning.”

“I don’t want to,” Viktor sniffles.  “I don’t want to risk this being a dream.”

“It’s not a dream,” Yuuri says, but that’s exactly the thing that dream-Yuuri would say because dream-Yuuri would want him to feel better.  “It’s not a dream.  I’ll be here.  You’ll be here.  You aren’t going to wake up in that awful cell, sweetheart, I promise you’re safe now.”

“I missed you so much,” he whimpers, clutching at Yuuri a little more desperately.  “I was so scared, I thought it was m-my fault when he said you—you—”

“Oh, Vityen’ka,” Yuuri breathes.  He holds Viktor tight, tight enough that Viktor can feel his heart beating in his chest, and kisses his hair so gently Viktor could cry.  “I love you so much, you know that?”

“I love you, too.”   Viktor buries his face in Yuuri’s neck again, not caring that it’s hard to breathe like this because he’s all sniffly and teary.  All that matters is _Yuuri._ Yuuri, who is here and is holding him and kissing his hair again, stroking his back and his neck and holding him so tenderly and making sure the blankets don’t fall down from his shoulders.  “I… I…”

“It’s okay,” Yuuri murmurs.  “It’s okay now.  You’re safe.  Rest.  You’ll feel better in the morning.”

“Hold me?” he requests, plaintive.  “Please?”

“Of course.”  Yuuri laughs softly, a little breathless.  “The only reason I wasn’t already was because I didn’t want to wake you.  Rani says you need to sleep.”

“Rani?”

Yuuri kisses his hair again.  “A friend of Phichit’s.  She’s a healer.  She’s helping us take care of you.”

Finding a healer makes _sense,_ but a little part of Viktor recoils at the thought of letting another total stranger touch him in this vulnerable state.  Yuuri must be able to feel his apprehension, because he rocks him gently again and rubs his back some more and hums softly.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs.  “I’m not leaving you alone unless you want me to.”

“Don’t,” Viktor begs immediately.  He spent too long being alone in that fucking cell with nothing but his own hazy, drugged thoughts and the occasional visits from his tormentors.  He doesn’t want that.  He doesn’t want to be alone, ever again.  “I’ll never want that, Yuuri.  I’ll always—I’ll always want you.”

He can feel Yuuri’s lips curve into a smile against his temple.  “Then I guess you’ll always have me.”  Yuuri says it so simply that for a few solid seconds, Viktor forgets how difficult politics can be, forgets that he’s been drugged and kidnapped and replaced, forgets everything outside of the warm, safe circle of his lover’s arms.

It feels good.

“Always?” he echoes dolefully, lifting his head to look up at Yuuri’s sleepy brown eyes.

Yuuri nods.  “Always and forever.”

“Oh,” Viktor breathes.  He snuggles closer, hesitates only for a moment before he slips his leg between Yuuri’s and tangles them together, and sighs.  “Okay.”

“Can I turn the light off?” Yuuri asks after a few moments.  “You need rest, Vitya.  I can tell you everything in more detail in the morning, if you want.  But for now let’s sleep, okay?”

“Okay,” Viktor mumbles again.  Yuuri can do whatever he wants so long as they stay curled up together just like this.  He’ll gladly take the aches and pains and exhaustion and numbness if it means he can lie in Yuuri’s arms again, listening to his heart beating strong and steady in his chest. 

“Mm,” Yuuri hums.  He has to stop stroking Viktor’s hair to stretch over to the lamp again, but as soon as his fingers fumble at the switch with a _click_ and the room is plunged into darkness again, his hand returns, soothing and gentle.  It’s been a while since anyone has touched him gently.  “Sleep, sweetheart.  You’re safe.”

Viktor closes his eyes, pressing his face into the warm skin of Yuuri’s neck and sighing.  Yuuri’s hands slow in his hair and on his back, and he realizes Yuuri must be sleepy too, no doubt tired after whatever they did to “steal him away”.  What time is it, anyway?  He has no idea whatsoever. 

Maybe he ought to feel a little guilty for waking Yuuri up when he’s exhausted from whatever ordeals he went through to get them both here.  But he doesn’t, not one bit.  If he hadn’t woken Yuuri up, he wouldn’t be cozy in his arms like this now, feeling safe and secure and so tenderly loved that it chases away the horrors in his memory, at least for now.  He wouldn’t know where he is or that Yuuri is _safe._

So he doesn’t feel guilty.  For the most part, he just feels relieved.

After a moment of internally struggling with this and wondering whether he _ought_ to feel guiltier than he does, his thoughts are interrupted by a little brush of sleepy warmth in his mind, and he’s startled enough that he opens his eyes, overcome by emotion because it’s been _so long_ since he’s felt one of Yuuri’s little empathic kisses.  Yuuri lets out a breathy little chuckle.

“Your eyelashes tickle,” he murmurs, stroking his thumb over Viktor’s cheekbone.  His hands are warm, his touch soft.

“I love you.”  Viktor kisses his shoulder.  Yuuri hums softly in response, and a heartbeat later Viktor finds himself surrounded by a warm blanket of gentle, soft affection, just like the blanket Yuuri has wrapped around him physically.  He feels so cozy and safe and _loved_ that he nuzzles Yuuri’s neck and squeezes him close, unable to keep still because he just loves this man too much not to show it, and closes his eyes again.

Sleep comes quickly, when he feels safe and peaceful, and that night, he isn’t even plagued by any nightmares.

* * *

Yuuri wakes first in the [morning](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jSvxE5eIUIQ), feeling refreshed.  Viktor is still asleep in his arms (the left one has lost pretty much all feeling), precious and curled up into a loose ball, and Yuuri feels so overwhelmed by fondness that he can’t do anything but smile and smile and smile.  It’s been too long since he’s slept in a bed with his beloved; he’s glad he didn’t quite get used to sleeping alone again.  Waking up like this feels right.

Sighing softly, he turns his head and presses a kiss into Viktor’s hair and lingers for several seconds, closing his eyes again and squeezing him closer.  Viktor stirs with a slight moan.  But he needs his rest, so Yuuri strokes his hair and shushes him softly, sending him gentle _rest-safe-loved-rest_ until the crease between his brows smooths away and he stills again.

 _I love you so much,_ he thinks, looking down at Viktor’s silvery hair.  It’s lackluster and limp, the usual shine dulled by his stay in captivity.  His face is still pale and gaunt from so little exposure to sunlight for the past few weeks, and even in his sleep, weariness drags down every line of his body. 

Yuuri doesn’t know if he’s ever seen anyone so beautiful.

He spends a few minutes just floating in early-morning timeless bliss, letting his eyes slowly trace over each and every line of Viktor’s sleeping form as they tangle closer together, relaxed and easy.  The sunlight grows stronger outside the window, gradually filling the room with white gold that slips through the curtains, a sliver of it falling neatly across Viktor’s shoulder.  Yuuri traces that line with his fingers, then follows the curve of it up to his neck and his jaw, admiring his Vitya with quiet reverence.

Viktor stirs again when Yuuri’s hand wanders to his cheek, knuckles gently brushing against his cheekbones and fingertips stroking his hair back from his forehead.  Yuuri smiles at him and continues his gentle exploration, rediscovering every inch of this beautiful face he’s missed for weeks now.  Viktor’s eyes open slowly, his lashes fluttering and his gaze soft and unguarded; he’s still for several seconds as Yuuri strokes the underside of his chin and caresses his throat with a light touch, before moving to the nape of his neck and sliding up to trace the shell of his ear with a fingertip.

“Good morning,” Yuuri finally whispers, a little hesitant to break the stillness but longing to hear Viktor’s voice like this, soft and sweet and rough from sleep.  Viktor presses a warm kiss to his jaw.

“It is a good morning,” he agrees, barely more than a husky whisper, and Yuuri cups his cheek tenderly.  “My Yuuri.”

Emotion swells in Yuuri’s chest.  The last time they spoke, Viktor refused to call himself Yuuri’s Vitya, refused to call Yuuri his own.  He was convinced they were over, convinced it was the only way to keep Yuuri safe.  Now, though…

Now, Yuuri gives him a warm, radiant smile.  “My Vitya,” he says, and Viktor’s face brightens too, because he must also know that it feels right.  “I should get up soon.  Someone needs to send for breakfast, and _you_ need to eat.  Healer’s orders.”

Viktor’s arms tighten around him, and a moment of shifting and rearranging himself later, his legs do, too, wrapped snugly around Yuuri’s hips as Viktor pulls him almost on top of himself and clings bodily to him.  “Not yet.”

“Oh, _Vitya,”_ Yuuri laughs softly, blinking back sudden tears all over again.  He doesn’t want to cry.  He’s just _happy._  “Okay.  Okay, darling.  I’m right here.”

He wraps his arms around Viktor’s neck and just holds him, blissful and at peace and so happy he could burst and all that would be within him would just be sunshine.  They lie together, quiet and content, until Viktor lets out a soft little sound that’s suspiciously close to a whine. 

Alarmed, Yuuri snaps out of his daydreams and looks down at him, noticing the frustration growing and pushing aside his contentment.  “Vitya?”

“It’s—sorry,” Viktor whispers, closing his eyes.  “Sorry.  We’re supposed—we’re supposed to be being happy right now.”

“Hey,” Yuuri murmurs, sitting up.  Viktor lets out a tiny gasp and presses the side of his face into the pillow where Yuuri was lying until moments ago, reaching for him plaintively, and Yuuri takes his questing hand and kisses each knuckle.  “It’s okay.  Talk to me?”

“It hurts.”  Viktor takes a deep, shaky breath and squeezes Yuuri’s hand hard, his eyes still shut.  “Sorry.”

“Oh,” Yuuri breathes.  Rani said as much last night on the sky-carriage, when she came in to see to Viktor after giving Yuuri his few minutes alone with him.  The withdrawal from high doses of elemental inhibitors can be painful, with severe muscle aches as a common side-effect.  Fatigue and nausea are also common, she added.  Yuuri wants to get breakfast for him so he’ll at least have something in his stomach to help him keep painkillers down.  He still hates seeing Viktor so helpless to his own pain, curled up in the sheets and biting his lip.  “How bad?”

“I… I’ll be fine,” Viktor mumbles, which is not an answer.  Yuuri starts stroking his hair and face again, helpless as to anything else he might do for his poor sweet Vitya, and Viktor presses almost desperately into his touch.  “Just—give me a moment.”

“Don’t push yourself too hard,” Yuuri soothes, kissing his forehead.  “Rest.  You need lots of rest.  And I’m sure you’re hungry.  I’ll go get breakfast sent up for us and come right back, okay?”

Viktor lets out a little frustrated whine.  “Please don’t go?”

Yuuri hesitates for a long moment.  “Vitya,” he starts, chewing at his lower lip uncertainly.  “You need to eat.  You’ll feel better afterwards, and you can take some medicine and Rani can heal you some more afterwards because you’ll have a little more strength.  I don’t want you to hurt.”

Viktor takes a shaky breath and looks up at him, a little quiet and a little broken.  “ _Please,”_ he begs.  “I don’t want to be alone,” and that’s all it takes.  Yuuri melts, scoops him into his arms, and leans back against the headboard, holding Viktor snug against his chest like he did last night, and kisses his hair again.

“Okay.  It’s okay.  I’m here, I’m right here, you’re not alone,” he murmurs, maybe babbling a little as he presses kisses all over Viktor’s head, from his crown to his temples to his brow to his forehead.  Viktor spent almost a _month_ in that awful cell, drugged and groggy and grieving and painfully isolated—god, he’s been so starved of any loving touch that Yuuri can feel his desperation plain as day any time he starts to move away.  “I’m here.  Shhh, shhh, it’s okay.”

Viktor clings to him for a few minutes, and Yuuri rubs slow circles into his back, hoping that they might help with both the craving for touch and the pain.  He also tries wrapping himself around Viktor’s consciousness and sending gentle _soothe-soft-peace-soothe-soft_ feelings to him, but he doesn’t know how helpful that’ll be when a lot of Viktor’s distress is coming from painful soreness caused by drug withdrawal. 

Still, he must be doing something right, because the stiffness in Viktor’s shoulders starts to drain away after a little while, more and more, until he’s completely limp in Yuuri’s arms, face smushed into his shoulder.  Yuuri almost starts to wonder if he’s falling asleep again.

“Do you think you feel up to getting out of bed?” he asks, keeping his touch steady and his voice gentle.  It’s a suggestion, and if Viktor isn’t up to it, that’s fine.  He shouldn’t be ashamed for it.  “A hot bath might make you feel better, too.”

Viktor takes a deep breath and lets it out very slowly.  “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Yuuri says, startled into a laugh.  “I missed you.  Was that a no?”

“No, I—I think I can do it.”  Viktor blows out a breath against Yuuri’s collarbone.  “…Slowly.”

“Take all the time you need,” Yuuri assures him.  His poor darling—he always does seem to need reminding that he doesn’t have to be perfect all the time, doesn’t he?  “I won’t mind even if it takes us an hour to make it to the bathroom.”

“Okay,” Viktor says.  “Okay.”  He offers a shaky but genuine smile, lifting his head, and Yuuri can’t help but hug him close again, rocking him back and forth.  He’s been aching to see that smile for _weeks._   “I can try.”

Yuuri has to let go of him to get out of bed, and he does so with great reluctance.  While he puts on his glasses and texts Christophe to let him know Viktor is awake and then quickly messages Yura the same, Viktor sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed, blows out a breath, and stands up.

And abruptly collapses.

Yuuri almost shrieks, abandoning his phone to sprint around the bed where Viktor is sitting on the floor, looking a bit dazed.  He drops to one knee and cups his face in both hands, anxious and worried enough that he can feel his heart pounding.  “Vitya?  Oh my god, are you okay?  Sweetheart?  Oh my goodness, Vitya—”

“Wow,” Viktor mumbles, blinking up at him once, twice, thrice.  “I didn’t remember walking being that hard.”

Yuuri blinks.  “Oh.”

Viktor is the one who starts laughing first, leaning his cheek into Yuuri’s palm so that his hand is pressed between his face and shoulder.  His little giggle is infectious—Yuuri starts to laugh too, stroking his thumb over Viktor’s cheekbone and shaking his head.

“You scared me,” he complains, still laughing ruefully, and Viktor looks up at him, mirth fading into contrition.  Yuuri’s thumb smooths away the apology on his lips before it can spill out.  “No, none of that.  I like hearing you laugh.”

“Can I try that again?” Viktor asks, still smiling; Yuuri can’t help but be extremely relieved that he’s taking his own weakness this well.  “I feel like— _honestly,_ how am I supposed to impress the love of my life if I can’t even walk to a bathroom?”

He’s teasing, but Yuuri gives him a very genuine and warm smile.  “You don’t need to try to impress me,” he says.  “You already do it just by being you.  My very own silly, beautiful, perfect Vitya.”

Those blue eyes are a little too bright again.  Yuuri wonders when he stopped being self-conscious about saying mushy things like that and figures it probably happened when he thought he might never have the opportunity to say them again.

“Yuuri,” Viktor murmurs.  _“Yuuri…”_

“Come here, you,” Yuuri says, a wry smile tugging at his lips as he holds out his arms, and Viktor shuffles forward to plant his face in his shoulder, arms winding tightly around his waist.  “I’m so glad I have you back.”

“I’m yours,” Viktor mumbles into his neck.  “You’ll never get rid of me now.”

Yuuri blinks.  Is he just ignoring everything about the politics of their situation?  These feel almost like stolen moments, minutes Yuuri has to treasure and guard close to his heart for when he inevitably has to leave Elvetia and go back to Hinomoto.  He can’t just smuggle Viktor wherever he goes, as much as he’d love to stay close to him forever.

Then again, Viktor has been through more than enough to warrant ignoring politics for a while.  Yuuri rubs his shoulders and hums.  “I’d never want to try.”

“You know,” Viktor says after a moment, lifting his head—there’s a little mischievous twinkle in his eye that Yuuri hasn’t seen for so long but has sorely missed—and smiling just so, “we managed to get a little bit away from the bed just now.  Do you think we could make it to the bathroom by hugging all the way across the floor?”

A laugh bubbles out of Yuuri’s throat and into the air.  “We might be able to,” he agrees, humming.  “Do you want to try?”

“Not yet,” Viktor says.  He pulls away, runs a frazzled hand through his hair, and blows out a breath.  “I want to try walking again.  I’m a stubborn fool who refuses to give up after just one attempt.”

“Some say persistence is a trait to be admired,” Yuuri points out.  He stands and holds out his hands, and Viktor looks up at him with an expression so open and adoring that he might melt under the soft intensity of it.  He’s lucky it doesn’t last long, and Viktor takes his hands and slowly, painstakingly gets to his feet again, this time wobbling and leaning heavily into him but not falling.

“I can do it,” he says, a little flushed from exertion but sounding satisfied.  “I just—I wasn’t expecting to feel so weak the first time, and it caught me by surprise.  But I can do it.”

“You can do it,” Yuuri agrees, proud as can be.  “Are you okay, though?”

Viktor sighs and deflates a little.  Yuuri lets go of his hands to wrap an arm around his waist.  “I just—I hurt,” he admits.  Yuuri can feel him trembling a little.  “It’s dull, though.  Like—like I’m very, very sore or something.  Everywhere.”

“Rani said you would probably feel like that,” Yuuri murmurs, rubbing what he hopes is a soothing little circle on Viktor’s hip.  “Hot bath sound good?”

“Very,” Viktor sighs.  “…You wouldn’t leave, would you?”

“I have to go make a public appearance with Christophe at some point,” Yuuri sighs, “but I’ll make sure you’re not alone, I promise.  Phichit can sit with you, if nobody else is available.”

Viktor makes a little strangled noise in his throat.  “Yuuri, dear, I appreciate it,” he says, turning and kissing Yuuri’s temple in a way that’s so familiar that Yuuri’s heart lurches painfully in his chest, “but frankly, I would much rather you be the one accompanying me to a bath.”

Yuuri’s cheeks flame red.  “I—of course I would _then,”_ he stammers, flustered and laughing.  “I meant in general I would make sure someone stays with you when I can’t—I don’t think you’d want to—Vitya, stop laughing at me!”

They’re both grinning, though, laughing like fools at something that isn’t even that funny.  It’s just been too long since they’ve heard each other laugh, maybe, or perhaps they’re both just giddy on each other’s presence once again.  Either way, Viktor stumbles forward a few steps and Yuuri hurries to support him, giggling all the way.

The bathroom isn’t that far away, but walking is a slow process for Viktor, who insists that he can make it without leaning on Yuuri too hard.  Yuuri doesn’t want to make him feel weak or coddled, so he doesn’t fight it despite wanting to help, and just walks along with him, his arm still around Viktor’s waist but offering affection more than support.

When they finally reach it, they separate for a few moments to brush their teeth and wash their faces.  Normally, when they would get ready together in the mornings, Viktor would flick water at Yuuri and laugh when he complained, and sometimes they’d escalate things into full-scale water fights in the bathroom.  Viktor always had an unfair advantage thanks to his elemental magic, there, but he never pressed it too hard.

Now, Yuuri sees him pondering, a lump of snow sitting in his hand.  _Don’t you dare,_ he starts to say, but the words die in his throat, because Viktor doesn’t feel playful right now; he’s just contemplative and a little sad.  Yuuri goes to him, wraps his arms around his waist, and rests his chin on his shoulder, drawing Viktor’s back against his chest.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“I missed the ice,” Viktor says simply.  He leans back into Yuuri and sighs, letting the snow melt back into water that drips through his fingers and drains away in the sink.  Yuuri kisses his neck and hums.

A moment of silence passes just like that.  Yuuri kisses his neck some more, delighting that he has the ability to do so now because Viktor is safe and here, in front of him, and Viktor sighs and lets his head fall to the side to let him.  In the mirror, Yuuri can see the soft, tired smile on his face as he does.

“I feel gross,” Viktor announces after a few more heartbeats of this, and Yuuri stops with the kisses, raising an eyebrow.  “You’re right.  I do want a bath.  But I’m also hungry.”

“You had a sponge bath last night,” Yuuri informs him.  “Do you want to bathe first or eat first?”

“Sponge bath?”  Viktor frowns.  “I…  Yuuri?”

“I was the one who gave it to you,” Yuuri hurries to reassure, afraid that Viktor might not like the thought of having been exposed and vulnerable to anyone else after his travails.  But that doesn’t make the frown smooth away.  “…What is it?”

Viktor sighs, clearly troubled.  “What happened last night?  I don’t—I don’t remember any of it.”

“You were asleep for most of it,” Yuuri reminds him gently, pressing another kiss to the spot where his neck joins his shoulder.  “It’s understandable that you don’t remember.”

“Still,” Viktor presses.  “I want to know.  Please.”

“I’ll tell you everything either during your bath or over breakfast,” Yuuri says, squeezing him close again.  “You just have to let me take care of you while we talk, that’s all.”

Viktor is still for a moment, something imperceptible flickering behind his eyes.  “You always do that, don’t you?”

Yuuri frowns.  “What do you mean?”

“Take care of me,” Viktor clarifies.  There’s a stiffness in his shoulders that belies his vulnerability, and Yuuri holds him a little more snugly in response.  “I always end up making you do that for me.”

Yuuri snorts.  “And who was it who held me while I cried and spoonfed me when I was too exhausted to sit up after I got attacked in that alleyway?  Who was it who sat with me every single time I broke down about it and told me that I was safe and didn’t rest until I believed him?”

Viktor is trembling in his arms.  Yuuri can’t tell if it’s just his body’s pain and exhaustion catching up to him again, if he’s holding in tears, or if it might be both.  He kisses his neck again, one of his hands sliding up Viktor’s chest to rest over his heart.

“Vitya,” he murmurs, more gentle and soft.  “We take care of each other.  I _want_ to take care of you right now.  You’ve been through a lot, and I want to help you through it, and I don’t want you to feel guilty for it.  Okay?”

Abruptly, Viktor turns around in his arms and hugs him fiercely, shoulders hunched in on himself.  Yuuri pats his back and lets out a slow, relieved breath.

“If you’re waiting on a choice, I think I want to bathe first,” Viktor finally says, mumbling into Yuuri’s hair.  Yuuri smiles at the tacit agreement, the unsaid _okay, we take care of each other_ , and hums in acknowledgment.

“Okay,” he says.  “I don’t think we have many of your clothes here, but I did get Christophe to give me some that he says are your size, so they’re in the wardrobe for later.”

Viktor looks suitably impressed.  “You both planned everything out with that much detail?”

Yuuri hums.  “Well, we wanted to make sure we had everything you might need covered.  Anyway, do you want me to wash your hair?”

The look Viktor gives him can be described as nothing short of _adoring._   “Please?”

Yuuri kisses him.  He’s been waiting to kiss him properly, and maybe he would have in bed this morning if he hadn’t gotten sidetracked by just _holding_ him, but now that they’re standing here together again, he’s sure there can be no kiss more perfect than this.  Viktor’s lips are dry and more chapped than Yuuri has ever felt them, but he still kisses just as ardently and sweetly as ever, pulling Yuuri close just so, and Yuuri wants to melt into him like he always has. 

He doesn’t, though, not this time, because Viktor is unsteady on his feet and in pain and needs a soothing hot bath to relax his aching body.  This is why he breaks away after stealing a second slow, lazy kiss, even though Viktor whines at the loss of contact.

“Be patient!” Yuuri teases, laughing, as he heads over to the tub and turns the taps on, running the water over his fingers until it’s nice and pleasantly hot.  While he waits for it to fill, he turns his attention back to Viktor, settling his hands on his hips and tugging him closer again.

“I don’t _like_ being patient when it comes to you,” Viktor pouts, leaning his forehead against Yuuri’s.  Yuuri places his wet hand on his cheek and smiles innocently when Viktor’s pout increases, then lifts his chin to take that pouty lower lip between his own.  They kiss slowly for a few minutes while the water rises in the tub, until Yuuri is breathless and Viktor is flushed a beautiful rosy pink that only serves to highlight the brightness of his eyes.

“Good things come to those who wait,” Yuuri says, several minutes late in replying, and Viktor laughs, a low and satisfied sound deep in his throat.

“Clearly.”

The tub has a decent amount of water now, so Yuuri steps aside to get the Epsom salts and essential oils from a nearby cabinet—did he specifically ask Christophe where these might be kept earlier?  Maybe.  Okay, yes.  Can he be _blamed_ for wanting to pamper and fuss over Viktor, though?

Oh, wow.  There’s even rose petals and bubble bath.  That’s a nice touch.  Yuuri takes the salts first, pours a good amount into the tub, and then adds a few drops of lavender essential oil.  Steam rises, smelling heavenly, and Viktor tugs him in for another kiss.

“I love you,” he says breathlessly, looking down at Yuuri with those beautiful blue eyes.  “You—you make everything better.”

Yuuri kisses the corner of his lips and nuzzles his cheek.  “How are you feeling?”

“Still hurts,” Viktor admits.  “I think I’m getting used to it, though.”

“Mm,” Yuuri acknowledges.  “The bath will help.  Sit down in the meantime?”

“No,” Viktor says.  “I want to stand.”

Yuuri pauses, considers him, and then nods, lifting his chin to offer another kiss.  Viktor takes it eagerly, and Yuuri lets his hand find its way up into Viktor’s hair, closing his eyes as Viktor hums contentedly into his mouth.  He doesn’t want to be coddled.  Yuuri understands that.  He’s going to fuss, but he’s not planning to patronize. 

When the tub is almost full, he pulls back to add the bubble bath, and Viktor lets out a delighted laugh as sudsy foam covers the surface of the [water](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WL4xsQYKafA).  Yuuri sprinkles it with rose petals, too, just for good measure, and surveys his handiwork with satisfaction before he turns back to his beloved.

“Ready?”

“Yeah,” Viktor says.  He keeps looking at Yuuri with a impossibly tender, almost wistful smile, like he can’t quite believe this is real and actually happening, and Yuuri wants nothing more than to erase the sadness that hasn’t left his eyes.

Yuuri kisses him once more, delighting simply in the touch of Viktor’s lips, and then reaches for the belt holding his robe closed, raising his eyebrows in a silent request for permission.  Viktor’s pink, full, very-kissed lips curve into a smile, and Yuuri unties the knot, then slowly smooths his hands up Viktor’s chest to his shoulders, slipping his thumbs under the robe and pushing it to the sides so it falls down his arms. 

It’s funny.  A month or two ago, he would have blushed ridiculously hard at even the _thought_ of undressing Viktor like this.  It felt like that was still a little too fast, as if being comfortable changing clothes in front of each other was something so different from changing each other’s clothes.  He’s never been uncomfortable with nudity, not with all the hot springs around Hasetsu, both in and out of the castle, but the act of untying Viktor’s robes, of sliding them from his shoulders, would have had him incredibly flustered, he’s sure.

But now?   Nothing could feel more natural, more comfortable, than just the two of them, just being themselves and existing together, two halves of a whole.  No—that’s not quite right.  They’re whole already on their own, but when they come together, oh, they become something _beautiful._

Viktor, he thinks, must be pondering these same things, because he has yet to step into the bath even though his robe lies discarded, pooling around his feet.  He’s just standing there with Yuuri’s hands on his shoulders, smiling that gentle, adoring, just-barely-sad smile again.

“Yuuri,” he murmurs.  Yuuri cups his cheeks in both hands and waits for him to continue.  “Are you _sure_ I’m not dreaming?”

“Absolutely, one hundred percent positive,” Yuuri answers, squishing his cheeks.  Viktor lets out a surprised little breathless laugh.  “Now get in your bath before it gets cold, dear.”

“I _adore_ you,” Viktor tells him, kissing first one palm and then the other.  “I absolutely and utterly adore you with every fiber of my being.”

Yuuri holds his hand to help steady him on his shaky legs as he clambers into the tub, then rolls up the legs of his silky pajama pants as far up his thighs as they can go and climbs in behind him, sitting on the edge of the tub so Viktor can lean back and lay his head in his lap.  The room is quiet now that the taps are off; the water is pleasantly warm around his feet, and Viktor lets out the most blissful little moan-turned-sigh as he relaxes into it.

“Oh my god,” he breathes.  “That feels _good_.  This was a very good idea.  Thank you, darling.”

He turns his head to kiss Yuuri’s knee, and Yuuri laughs, running his hands through that mussed silvery hair fondly.  “Anytime, Vitya.”

Viktor lets out another deep, relaxed sigh and lays his head in Yuuri’s lap, closing his eyes.  Yuuri slides his hands down from his hair to his shoulders and starts massaging them, knowing that the drugs and the withdrawal from them made his poor Vitya’s entire body painfully sore.  Sure enough, as his fingers work away, diligently digging into tight knots of sore muscle, Viktor moans again.

“Oh my god, Yuuri, I am just going to _die,”_ he laments.  “You’re too good to me.  Too good.”

“Please don’t do that,” Yuuri requests, bending over to kiss the top of his head.  He’s glad this tub was built into an alcove in the bathroom walls, instead of being a claw-foot or something like that; having a wall at his back makes it much easier to sit on the edge behind Viktor without falling in, even while providing kisses.  “You know I like you alive and happy.”

Viktor snorts at that.  He floats blissfully in his bubble bath for a few more minutes while Yuuri keeps rubbing his shoulders, then sighs and lifts a sudsy hand and presses it to Yuuri’s knee to hold his leg there while Viktor kisses the inside of his thigh and smiles up at him, soft and peaceful.  “Thank you.”

Yuuri smiles back, caressing his cheek tenderly.  “You’re welcome.  Anything for you.”

Viktor’s smile fades slightly.  “What happened yesterday?”

Yuuri sighs.  “I guess I should start from the beginning,” he murmurs.  Viktor hugs his leg.  “You… how long did they have you in there, anyway?  When did they…”

Viktor sinks a little further into the tub.  “The… the night you left.  I should have expected something, but I was too busy being a mopey idiot, and—”

“Viktor Nikiforov,” Yuuri warns, “if you’re going to finish that sentence by blaming yourself for not seeing this plot coming, I’ll… I’ll…  Oh, dammit!  I can’t think of a good threat, I can’t even stand the _thought_ of being mean to you!  But I’ll do _something,_ you mark my words!”

Viktor blinks up at him.  Then he offers a hesitant little smile, and Yuuri swips a fingertip through a floating mound of bubbles to adorn Viktor’s nose with a little white crown.

“There,” he says.  “More bubbles if you say bad and untrue things about yourself.”

“Does it…”  Viktor swallows.  “Does it actually bother you that much?  To hear me… talk about myself like that?”

Yuuri bites his lip, hesitating.  “I don’t… my problem isn’t that you _say_ those things about yourself,” he finally says, gently brushing the bubbles away from Viktor’s face.  “It’s that you believe them.  The fact that you are hurting is what makes me sad.  But I don’t want you to just—I don’t want you to pretend you aren’t.  Because I’ll know, and you pretending to be fine just to spare my feelings would be worse, because the last thing I want is for you to feel like you have to be sad alone.”

“Oh,” Viktor says softly.  Yuuri rests a hand atop his head, weakly scrunching his fingers through his hair.

“Yeah,” he agrees, just as soft.  “I promise you, none of this was your fault.”

“…Are you sure you’re not upset with me for breaking off our engagement?”

“No!”  Yuuri nearly falls into the tub from the vehemence of his own statement.  “No, of course not!  I—the only time I was mad was before I realized why you did it.  Vitya, that was so _selfless—_ you just did it to save my life, how could I ever be _mad_ about that?”

Viktor is quiet for a moment.  “I know,” he finally says.  His voice is small.  He hugs Yuuri’s leg close to him again, and Yuuri strokes his hair some more, wanting to console him even though he doesn’t yet know what’s wrong.  “I… I know we talked about this already.  Before you even left.  I just—I think I had too much time alone to think.  While I was… while they had me.”

“I know,” Yuuri murmurs.  He leans down and kisses the top of Viktor’s head again.  “You can ask me if I love you as many times as you need to hear it.  The answer won’t change.”

“Oh,” Viktor says.  His voice is even softer.  “Okay.  I’ll… okay.”

Yuuri keeps telling him the story of everything that happened while he was being held captive.  He tells him about trying to learn philology from Minako before getting in touch with Christophe, about Mari’s glee at getting Yuuri in touch with her spy network, and about Rika and Phichit bonding over blades.  He tells him about sitting in the garden maze and thinking _I miss Vitya_ to the empty sky. 

He tells him, more haltingly, about the texts between himself and Sergei, about the dance in Elvetia, and his confusion.  Viktor stops him, here, while Yuuri pours warm water from a pitcher to rinse the conditioner from his hair.

“How did you know?” he asks softly, wet hair plastered to the sides of his face as he looks up at Yuuri.  “How did you figure it out?”

“I didn’t know for sure,” Yuuri admits softly.  “I thought something was wrong, especially because—well, at one point, I told him that the katsudon was getting really high.  He—he just, ah, walked away.  In hindsight, that was a huge clue—”

He stops midsentence, alarmed by the spike in distress from Viktor, who turns abruptly so that his face is buried in Yuuri’s leg, and hugs it to his chest. 

“Vitya?”

Viktor lifts his head, and Yuuri is shocked to see tears glimmering in his eyes. 

“Oh, Vitya,” he breathes.  “Sweetheart, what is it?”

Viktor just shakes his head mutely, dashing at his face with the back of a hand.  When he speaks, it’s slow and halting, like the words struggle to leave his mouth, caught in his throat and stumbling all over each other.  “You—you mean you needed me… and I _wasn’t there?”_

The air leaves Yuuri’s lungs with a _whoosh._   “Oh, _Vitya,”_ he breathes, and no longer caring about getting a little water on his clothes, he leans down and hugs Viktor tightly, pressing him back to his chest.  “You precious, sweet, wonderful man.  I’m okay.  I was okay, then, too.  Please don’t be worried.  Don’t cry.  It’s okay.  I’m okay.”

“I promised you I’d be there and help you,” Viktor insists, clearly upset.  Yuuri can feel guilt rolling off him in waves, almost like it did when he was recovering from being attacked in the alleyway.  He hugs him tighter.  “I told you I’d—”

“Getting kidnapped and replaced by a magical doppelganger wasn’t really something either of us accounted for,” Yuuri interrupts softly, shaking his head.  “I would never blame you for that.  And even otherwise, if you were unable to help me out for less horrible reasons, I still wouldn’t blame you.  You don’t have to drop everything for me at all times, you know.  I’m okay, shh.  Shhh, it’s okay.  We’re okay.”

He rocks Viktor gently back and forth, water gently sloshing around in the tub, and waits until his darling relaxes in his arms before he relinquishes his hold and resumes washing the conditioner from Viktor’s hair.  Viktor still looks a little upset, and Yuuri can still feel his guilt, but it’s not as all-consuming as it was a minute ago.

To distract him from it, Yuuri pours more warm water over his head, strokes his fingers through his hair, and keeps telling him the story of the last month, ending with the ball in Ruthenia and their carefully-planned heist.  He even gets a laugh out of him by complaining about how _awkward_ it felt to talk to Prince Michele again, at which point Viktor stops him, reaching up to brush sudsy fingers across his cheek.

“Oh, Yuuri.  You’re so beautiful,” he breathes, dreamy and soft and blissful.  Warmth rises to Yuuri’s cheeks even as relief that the guilt is fading (at least for now) lets him smile more broadly.  This man has the most soft and sweet and loving heart on the planet.  Yuuri will always protect it.

He strokes the pad of his thumb over Viktor’s lips in lieu of a kiss.  “Mm, not quite as beautiful as you, but thank you.”

Viktor snorts.  “I look like a train wreck right now, but I appreciate you trying to spare my feelings anyway, dearest.”

Yuuri frowns at him.  “No, I meant it.”

“You are beautiful, Yuuri,” Viktor says, looking up at him earnestly.  “I know you don’t always see it yourself, but you _are._ I mean that, too.  You’re kind and funny and sweet and brilliant, and you’re stubborn and persistent and incredible, and…”

Yuuri touches his lips again.  Viktor presses a tiny little whisper of a kiss to his fingertips.

“I’m not putting myself down,” he explains, sure his face is ruby-red.  “I—all I meant was that when I woke up this morning and you were right there with me, that was… that was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, in my entire life.”

 _“Oh.”_   Viktor sits up, his eyes shining, and turns around in the tub so he can face Yuuri.  “Oh, Yuuri, my love,” he murmurs, and then reaches for his hands, and—

There’s a tug, a slip, a splash, and an interrupted screech, and Yuuri finds himself in Viktor’s lap in the water, being kissed quite thoroughly in a show of both overwhelming affection and blatant disregard for the formerly dry state of his pajamas.

“Vitya!” he gasps.  Water is still sloshing over the side of the tub onto the floor, and his shirt and pants are _soaked_ from the chest down.

And Viktor is laughing.

His head is tipped back, his eyes are closed, and he’s _laughing,_ from deep in his chest, the exact laugh Yuuri has been yearning to hear for weeks.  The shock from being unceremoniously hauled into the tub melts into affection, and he wraps his arms around his ridiculous sweetheart’s shoulders and presses a kiss to his throat.  The water _is_ nice and pleasantly warm, and his clothes are only thin silk and not something heavy like fleece, so it’s not _that_ big of a deal…

“Silly,” he scolds, no heat in his voice whatsoever, as he grins.  Viktor’s glee is infectious, just like the warmth in his eyes when he opens them again and looks up at Yuuri, comfortable in his lap.  The water is about as warm as their bodies, so sitting together like this feels a little bit like floating.  Yuuri likes it.  One of these days, he’s going to bring Viktor back to Hasetsu again, and they’ll bathe together in the hot springs.

Without pajamas on.

Viktor kisses him again.  A shiver runs down Yuuri’s spine when one of Viktor’s wet hands slides up to the nape of his neck, leaving rapidly cooling water on his skin, and he lets out a little _oh_ into Viktor’s mouth that makes Viktor just deepen the kiss, pressing him closer.

When they break apart, a little breathless, Yuuri boops the tip of Viktor’s nose with a finger, giggling.  “Next time, you could give me a little warning before hauling me into your bath?”

Viktor winks.  “But I love the look on your face when you get surprised!”

Yuuri laughs and flicks water at him.  “You mean when I’m screaming because you made me fall into a tub?”

“I caught you,” Viktor says, shrugging like that’s the important point here.  “So, yes?”

“I can’t believe you,” Yuuri teases.  Viktor kisses the corner of his mouth and smiles adoringly again.  “Ridiculous, that’s what you are.”

Just to make it clear that he doesn’t actually mind, not one bit, he nuzzles Viktor’s nose and strokes his hair, and his hands slide to Viktor’s broad shoulders to start massaging again.  Viktor lets out a content little moan and slumps forward to rest his chin on Yuuri’s shoulder.

“It’s not like you can just _say_ things like that and expect me not to kiss you,” he points out, laughter rumbling in his chest again.  Yuuri sighs at him and keeps rubbing his back.  His Vitya is ridiculous, silly, and absolutely perfect in every way, and he tells him so.  It earns him a soft kiss pressed just below his ear.

“I’m pretty sure we just flooded the bathroom,” he says eventually, when he’s almost afraid Viktor’s going to fall asleep on his shoulder.  “So much for that robe of yours.  I suppose we could use it to mop up some of what’s on the floor now.”

“That’s fine, darling.  Clothes are overrated,” Viktor hums.  Yuuri laughs.  He plucks a rose petal from the surface of the water and pats it down on Viktor’s cheek, where it sticks, and then kisses it for good measure. 

“How are you feeling, Vitya?” he finally asks, because Viktor seems very relaxed against him, and that hopefully means the bath helped with the aches and pains.  “Better?”

“Much,” Viktor sighs.  “Can I just… stay like this forever?”

“We should get breakfast,” Yuuri points out, chuckling when Viktor whines and huffs in protest.  “And _dry clothes.”_

“Overrated,” Viktor says again, lifting his head to steal a quick kiss, and Yuuri can’t help but laugh.

 

* * *

When they finally make it out of the bathroom, heading to the sitting room of the guest suite the two of them seem to be staying in, Viktor is clean and cozy in his borrowed clothes.  He feels much more relaxed and refreshed after his nice, long bath, and while the awful sore aches permeating his body haven’t disappeared, soaking in hot water has certainly done a number on them.

“You seem happier,” Yuuri comments.  His arm is snug around Viktor’s waist.  Viktor can’t get enough of him, pulling him closer.  If he was less hungry, he’d just want to go back to bed, cuddle, and lazily make out for the next hour or so, just because Yuuri is _safe and alive,_ beyond a shadow of a doubt, and Yuuri loves him and Yuuri wants to take care of him, and god help him but he’s never been more in love in his _life._   “I’m glad.”

“Me too,” Viktor murmurs, pausing to nuzzle his face into Yuuri’s hair.  Yuuri laughs and looks up at him fondly, and Viktor can’t resist leaning down to steal yet another kiss.  Not a long one, though—beyond this door there’s the promise of fruit tarts, pancakes, and breakfast, and the more he thinks about that, the more he realizes he’s _starving._  

And then they step through the door into the sitting room and _Yura and Chris are there_ and yes, the fruit on the table looks heavenly, but he can hardly see it for the sudden tears welling up in his eyes.  They’re both staring at him and Yuuri, eyes wide.  Viktor’s legs wobble under him, and Yuuri’s arm tightens in response.

“Vitya?”

“Oh, god,” he breathes, and then he lurches forward and flings his arms around his little cousin, who lets out a little sharp cry of surprise but latches onto him so tightly he’ll be feeling the ghost of this hug for days.  “Yura, oh god, you’re here…”

“You fucking idiot,” Yura sniffles into his shoulder.  “You—I can’t—don’t you fucking _dare_ get kidnapped again or else I’ll—I’ll just—”

“It’s okay,” Viktor assures him, patting his back with his shaky hands.  “Shh, shh, don’t cry.  Yura.  It’s okay.  I’m okay.”

“Like _hell_ you are!” Yura cries vehemently.  “I _saw_ what you looked like last night!  Don’t bullshit me, I swear to god, you fucking moron!  God, you idiot, don’t scare us like that again.”

Viktor falls silent for a moment.  He has no idea what he looked like last night, but if it’s anything like what he looked like this morning when Yuuri helped him stumble into the bathroom, it can’t have been good.  “I’m… sorry you had to see that.”

“You—no!” Yura squeezes him painfully hard and stamps his foot. 

“Oh, and now he apologizes for being kidnapped and tortured for someone else’s political gain,” Chris comments idly to Yuuri.  “That sounds about right for our dear Viktor, doesn’t it?”

It startles a bark of laughter out of his throat, and he finally loosens his arms from around Yura’s shoulders and goes to his friend, hugging him tightly too.  Chris hugs back just as tightly, rubbing Viktor’s shoulder after a moment.

“It’s good to see you up and about,” he murmurs.  “We were all worried yesterday.”

“Don’t you fucking say sorry again,” Yura warns acerbically from behind him.  “Or I will kick your entire ass, Nikiforov.”

“Please don’t do that,” Yuuri says mildly.  “I’m trying to take care of his entire ass, plus what’s attached to it.”

Yura snorts.  “Well, _someone’s_ gotta kick his ass if he keeps apologizing like that.”

“I mean, yes,” Yuuri sighs, “but gently, okay?”

Tears still pricking at his eyes, Viktor hugs both his cousin and his friend one more time, wrapping an arm around each of them and squeezing as hard as he can.  “Thank you,” he whispers.  “Thank you both so much.  Yuuri told me what you did for me, and I…”

“Oh, shut up, you emotional old man,” Yuri huffs.  “We’re _family._ Who the fuck wouldn’t do whatever shit they can for family?  Dumbass.”

“You have such odd ways of showing affection, Yura,” Yuuri teases as they separate.  Viktor returns to his side, pleased when he manages to walk around the small table without wobbling on his sore, weak legs, and pulls out a chair for him.

“For you, prince of my heart,” he says, swallowing the overwhelming emotions and letting the happiness and relief swell and overpower him.  Yuuri laughs and pats his cheek.

“Thank you, king of my… wait, you already used heart.  Soul?  No, ‘king of my soul’ sounds weird.  Uh…”

Seemingly stumped, he just plops down in the chair and frowns at the strawberry tart in front of him.  Viktor drops a kiss to the top of his head and takes his own seat next to him.  Yuuri immediately slides his foot over and hooks it around Viktor’s ankle; Viktor doesn’t know whether he’s doing it out of his own desire for contact or because he can tell how starved for affection Viktor himself is, but either way, he loves it.

“For shame, Yuuri,” Chris teases.  “Where’s your sense of romance gone?  Or, even better, if you go a bit below the heart, he could be the king of your—”

“Shut the _fuck_ up,” Yura says, a fork clenched threateningly in his hand.  “Or else.”

“Let’s not kill each other and just eat, please,” Yuuri says in the tone of a tired but patient schoolteacher with the most unruly of students.  This sounds like a conversation the three of them have had before, and Viktor sits back, his smile fading a bit.

He was missing for _weeks._ He spent almost a full month down in that cell, drifting in and out of consciousness and sedative-fueled nightmares and daydreams, while all around him, life moved on.  How much did he miss?

“Vitya?”

Yuuri’s voice draws him back to the present, and he blinks.  “Yes, darling?”

“Are you okay?”  There’s soft concern in those gentle brown eyes, real and genuine, and Viktor relaxes a little.  Life moved on, maybe, but his Yuuri and Chris and Yura are all still here, waiting for him, ready to help him catch up.

“I’m… yes.  I’m okay.”  He smiles slightly and is almost surprised to find that it isn’t even hard to do.  Yuuri smiles back, clearly relieved, and then holds a forkful of strawberry tart to his lips.

“I’m glad,” he says.  “Now _eat!_ Before the tea and everything gets cold.”

Obediently, Viktor leans forward and accepts the proffered bite.  It’s light and flaky, and the filling is sweet without being sickeningly so, with tart strawberries thrown in the mix too, and he almost moans on the spot, eyes fluttering closed, because he hasn’t had actual food in—in _weeks._

“Oh my god,” he breathes.  “Yuuri.  This is.  This is the best thing I’ve ever had in my mouth, in my entire life.”

“Really?” Chris drawls, and it’s only now—a second too late—that he realizes he’s made a rookie mistake by mentioning things that go in mouths in front of _Chris._ “Even better than Yu—”

“I’m fucking warning you!”  Yura actually jabs Chris’s arm with his fork, albeit not hard enough to hurt (hopefully).  “We’re at _breakfast,_ you dipshit!”

Yuuri has his face buried in his hands.  His ears are red.  Viktor laughs and wraps one arm around his shoulders, pulling him into a side-hug while also helping himself to some more of the strawberry tart, then piling pancakes onto his plate and drowning the stack in syrup, whipped cream, and fruit. 

It strikes him that this is a rather light repast—no heavy foods like rich, cheesy omelettes or anything of the sort—and while at first glance that’s odd for someone who hasn’t eaten in a while, he remembers the nausea from last night (this morning?) and realizes that they must have known he would feel ill if he were to eat too much heavy food.

How are they all so _thoughtful?_

Around a mouthful of pancake, Viktor announces, “I love all of you,” and then continues stuffing fruit in his mouth.

“You’d think nobody ever taught you table manners,” Yura snorts, resting both elbows on the table and snickering openly.  Yuuri drops his hands to give him a very dry look.

Breakfast passes in a leisurely fashion, light and easy.  Viktor eats until he feels nice and sated and ready to curl up under a blanket again—for a moment he’s a little frustrated; what is he, a baby that has nothing to do but eat and sleep and eat and sleep?—and cuddle with Yuuri.  Yuuri feeds him the last bite of the strawberry tart, which is so incredibly sweet and romantic of him that Viktor almost swoons on the spot.

Eventually, Chris winks at Yuuri.  “So!  Are you ready to hit the slopes today, Yuuri?”

“I will either freeze to death or fall off the mountain and die,” Yuuri says matter-of-factly, “but yes.”

Yura laughs.  “I bet I can out-ski you, Katsudon!”

“You probably can,” Yuuri agrees.  “I haven’t been skiing in a while.  I don’t know how much of it I even remember!”

“Don’t worry,” Chris says reassuringly, “we can start you on the easy slopes first.  Yuri, meanwhile, I’m sure would love to hit up the double black diamond courses, am I right?”

“Bring it on,” Yura says defiantly. 

“Wait,” Viktor interrupts, heart sinking.  “You’re all just _leaving_ me to go play in the snow?”

He wants to go sit in the snow.  He’s too tired and weak for skiing, he knows that beyond the shadow of a doubt, and he’s also probably supposed to stay hidden from the public eye and the paparazzi cameras that will undoubtedly be watching a bunch of princes on their winter vacation.  But the idea of sitting around here alone as opposed to with Yuuri or Yura or Chris is markedly less appealing.  He doesn’t _want_ to be alone with his own thoughts right now.  He’s afraid they’ll go in bad directions.

“Not willingly,” Yuuri says, squeezing his hand.  “But don’t worry.  We won’t leave you alone, Vitya, and we’ll be back within a few hours, I promise!  Before we go out, Rani—that’s the healer from the shadow guild, she’s been working with us because she’s Phichit’s friend—will look you over again.”  At Viktor’s little spike of panic, he hastily adds, “And I’ll be with you the whole time!  I’m not leaving until you’re comfortable with Rani, Amir, and Leki.  Okay?”

“Yann can stay with you, too,” Chris suggests.  Yann is his steward and good friend—Viktor has met him several times.  He’s a very dry-witted man with the mind of a master tactician, and a formidable opponent at chess, to boot.  Viktor likes him well enough.  He doesn’t know if he knows him well enough to be vulnerable around him, though.  “If you’d like.”

“Maybe,” he says, but Yura is right there and he doesn’t want to make it seem like he’s really a mess or anything like that, if only for his little cousin’s sake, so he swallows the sigh he wants to let out and offers a shaky smile.  “I should be fine.”

Yuuri squeezes his hand again, presumably to let him know that he sees right through the bullshit, but doesn’t say anything, for which Viktor is grateful.  He’s still not very good at showing vulnerability in front of others.  Yuuri and Chris are both exceptions to that rule, especially Yuuri, but he’s still working on it.

Still, the reminder that he has to sit alone inside while Yuuri, Yura, Chris, and also Phichit, according to what Yuuri told him in the bath, all go put in appearances on the ski slopes for their vacation cover, that sours his mood.  He wants to live in a bubble where politics doesn’t exist and he can ignore all of the circumstances leading up to his current situation, just for a little while, until he feels more like himself again.  He just wants to fall asleep in Yuuri’s arms again, with those dearly beloved fingers caressing his hair.  He doesn’t want to have to think about what their next moves will be or where they have to go soon or any of that.

After breakfast, Chris takes his leave, sighing that he needs to go handle a bit of “boring court business, you know the kind” before they can go out for the day.  Yura gives Viktor another limpet-like hug and tells him he better hurry up and get better or else, and he stays longer, but eventually heads for the door, too, saying that he told Beka they’d go on a walk after breakfast. 

Yuuri wordlessly opens his arms as soon as the door closes behind Yura, and Viktor buries himself in them.  One of Yuuri’s hands presses firmly between his shoulderblades, the other slides into his damp hair, and Yuuri sighs softly.

“How are you feeling?” he asks again.  “Do you want to lie down?”

Viktor sighs too.  “Yeah,” he mumbles.  “I feel better than earlier, but still tired.”

“That’s alright,” Yuuri soothes.  “You need to rest.  It’s good for you.  If you can just sleep through the entire afternoon, you won’t even miss us!”

“I always miss you when you’re not with me,” Viktor tells him honestly.  “You know you’re stuck with a complete and utter sap, right?”

“I know,” Yuuri hums, his voice full of laughter and warmth.  “My sap knows I wouldn’t have him any other way, right?”

Viktor kisses him.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, smiling.  “He knows.”

 

* * *

Things that day are good, until the sun sinks below the mountains and plunges the world into [night](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ox-uwLP18u0).  In the darkness, everything around him is quiet, quiet, _too quiet,_ and everything in his head is far too loud.

Recollections of the cell rise up again, unwanted and unbidden but far too present to ignore, and Viktor curls up a little tighter, squeezing his eyes shut.  Yuuri is taking a shower after his day out on the ski slopes, and Makkachin is a blessing but can’t say much to distract him, and he desperately wants to not be alone right now.

But he is.

Makkachin whines softly and licks his chin.  The tears, when they spill from his eyelashes and trickle into his sweet dog’s fur, don’t come as much of a surprise, but the vehemence of the sob that rips its way out of his throat does.  Is he—is he _this_ sad?  Really?

“I was worried about you,” he tells Makkachin, his voice cracking.  He cried earlier, when Prince Altin and Yura brought Makkachin to his suite before going out skiing.  The dog has hardly left his side at all since then.  It helped, but…

The memory of helplessness threatens to drown him, cloying and thick in his throat.  He could hardly stay awake, his magic was gone, he was locked away, he was just a _tool,_ just a means to an end—they were using his body to collect his _blood_ and that’s all he was to them, just… just a fucking vessel…

Viktor’s fingers curl desperately into Makkachin’s fur.  He feels icky.  Used, dirtied, tarnished.  _Violated._

He is a person and he has agency and his body is his own.  He doesn’t… They wronged him, and they… he…

His head feels so fuzzy and muddled from the nausea and despair that he can hardly form a coherent thought, let alone figure out how to make everything stop spinning around like this.  He lets out another sob, clutches Makkachin closer, and lets himself fall apart.  Weak, weak, _weak._

The bathroom door opens.  Viktor holds his breath to silence the tears and doesn’t move.

Soft footsteps cross the room, coming closer to the bed, and then a hand brushes his cheek.  For a moment, he wonders if Yuuri thinks he just fell asleep, but no, that can’t be right.  Yuuri …

“Sweetheart,” Yuuri murmurs, sitting down on the edge of the bed.  “Talk to me?”

He lifts his head, looks up at Yuuri, and feels hot tears burn their way down his cheeks.  Yuuri cups his chin and waits, giving him time; normally, Viktor thinks he would get emotional about how sweet and loving Yuuri is, but right now, he feels like a gaping void has opened up in his chest, and nothing but despair can escape.

“They—they—”

He tries, he really tries, but the words _they tied me down, they tied me down and pumped me full of drugs and_ _they took my blood_ catch in his throat, vile and heavy and poisonous.  He doesn’t want to think about it.  He doesn’t want to remember the drugged sleepiness and his horrible inability to wake up fully, doesn’t want to remember just _lying there_ while they used him for whatever they needed, doesn’t—doesn’t—he can’t do this!

Instead, the despair crumbles into soft, vulnerable hurt, and as his walls come tumbling down he bursts into a fresh round of tears, these ones less choked by nauseous self-loathing and horror.  “Wh—why did they d-do that to me?”

He knows the answer.  It’s politics, it’s a power move, it’s nothing personal.  But that isn’t what he needs to hear right now, isn’t even what he’s _asking,_ even though he can’t find the right words for what he wants to say.  Makkachin licks his cheek again, wriggling away, and guiltily, Viktor loosens his arms.

Yuuri, however, doesn’t say any of those things.  He just traces Viktor’s cheekbones with delicate fingers, thumbing away the tears.  What’s the point of that?  They just keep falling.

“You didn’t deserve any of it.”  It’s soft but firm, and Yuuri holds his eyes for a few seconds after he says it.  Viktor is the first to look away.  “They did awful things and it’s unforgivable, what they did to you, but none of it was your fault.  You deserve so much better than this.”

Viktor sucks in a shuddering breath.  That sounds a little too good to be true.  “I… I…”

He lurches forward and buries his face in Yuuri’s shoulder, needing to be held, and Yuuri immediately pulls him close, wrapping both arms around him and pulling the blanket up to his shoulders like a shield between them and the rest of the world.  Viktor burrows down into it, into Yuuri.

“I hate what they did to you,” Yuuri says quietly.  “You’re wonderful and you deserve only good things, Vityen’ka.”

“I’m—oh, god—why am I so _sad?”_ Viktor blubbers.  He can’t seem to stop crying.  Makkachin keeps whining softly, clearly wanting to help, but he just—he keeps crying!  “Y-Yuuri, help me, I don’t, I d-don’t want to think about—about all of that!”

“Cry it out if you need to,” Yuuri advises.  He smells like coconuts, from the body wash in the bathroom, and Viktor desperately latches onto that, needing something to hold onto so that he can convince himself he’s really here, not just drifting in and out of reality like he might just be in the fucking cell all over again.  “Don’t force yourself to hold things in, okay?”

“I feel like, I feel like I’m still there,” Viktor whispers hoarsely.  His hands hesitantly find their way around Yuuri’s waist.  “What if this was all just a dream and I’m asleep and I’m going to wake up and that—that bastard is going to be standing over me taunting me because you’re d-dead and this is my only way of coping, and—”

He’s breaking down again, his voice cracking on words left and right, so he just gives up midsentence and lets another sob wrench itself out of his throat.  Yuuri tightens his arms.

“I’m here,” he murmurs.  “I promise.  You know that’s true, right?  This is real, and you can be scared that it isn’t, that’s okay, but this is _real._ You’re here, I’m here, we’re both safe.  I promise, Vitya, I promise.”

Viktor sobs brokenly into his neck, pressing close as if Yuuri’s soft, comforting warmth will just surround him and let him disappear.  “W-why did they _do that to me?”_

Yuuri lets out a slow breath, his hand protectively curving around the nape of Viktor’s neck.  Viktor whimpers and shudders in his arms, gasping for breath.  He’s crying too hard for breathing to come easily.  “I don’t know,” Yuuri finally says.  “I… they shouldn’t have.  I wish they hadn’t.  You deserve so much better, Vitya, oh, my poor Vitya…”

“I… I w-want Mama back,” Viktor manages to say, and then breaks down completely.  He just desperately clings to Yuuri and cries harder than he ever has, at least as far as he remembers.  Mama is gone.  She’s _gone._ The first thing he managed to do after she was murdered (his world rocks again at the thought that strong, proud, unbreakable Vasilisa Nikiforova was _murdered)_ was to get himself stuffed in a basement and just—just _used._   He wants her _back._  He could cry into her lap and be comforted and know, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that she would make everything okay, because she always did.  Always.

“Oh, Vitya,” Yuuri murmurs.  “Oh, my sweet Vitya.  Shhh.  I know.  I know.” 

He rubs Viktor’s back, slow and comforting, kisses his head, and tries his best to soothe him, and Viktor kind of hates himself for being so unconsolable right now that he can hardly even acknowledge Yuuri’s attempts.  One of these days, Yuuri is going to get sick of his bullshit and neediness and leave.  Having gone through… whatever the hell he should call what he just went through… that only exacerbated his melancholy and clinginess to a ridiculous degree.  Yuuri is going to hate him sooner or later.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, crying harder at the thought.  “I’m _sorry.”_

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”  Yuuri hugs him tight.  “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Viktor manages, but the hard lump of guilt is still there.  “I’m _so sorry.”_

“Darling,” Yuuri murmurs a little desperately, brushing his mind with a soft touch of affection.  Viktor would cry even harder at that, only he doesn’t think he _can_ cry any harder than he’s crying now.  “How can I help you right now?  What do you need?”

“D-don’t leave me,” he rasps without thinking.  His clinginess is at it again, and Yuuri is going to hate him for being so needy, but it is what it is.  “S-sorry.  Please.”

“I would never, _ever_ walk away from you like this,” Yuuri promises.  “Do you just need to cry?  Do you want me to try to distract you?”

“Make me happy,” Viktor begs, because Yuuri’s little empathic kisses are one thing, but he knows Yuuri can manipulate emotions and he’s so desperately tired of himself and his self-loathing and the nauseating horror in the pit of his stomach every time he thinks about the needle in his arm.  “I w-want to be happy.”

Yuuri sighs.  Viktor braces himself for the inevitable sting of rejection—here it comes.  “I… don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Please,” Viktor pleads, broken.

Yuuri’s fingers start to card through his hair, soft and gentle.  “It wouldn’t be real happiness if I did that.  It would be me forcibly bottling all of your sadness up for you and just pushing it to the back of your mind so it can lie in wait and assault you later.  I’m not doing that to you, Vitya.”

His heart sinks.  So there _is_ no way out of this cesspool of despair.  He’s just… stuck.  He crumples in Yuuri’s arms, too, another ragged little gasp forcing its way out of his mouth.  Breathing is hard and he’s gotten Yuuri’s shirt all messy.

“What I can do,” Yuuri murmurs, stroking his hair some more, “is be here and take care of you, and maybe… a little bit of this.”

His fingers work wonders as he caresses Viktor’s scalp, and Viktor closes his tired, teary eyes, only to open them a second later when he feels Yuuri’s mind brushing his own again.  It’s like before, with the little nudge of affectionate warmth, but _more,_ like Yuuri is wrapping him in a blanket of safety and love.  It doesn’t get rid of the sadness, but it takes the edge off the panic and the despair, and he feels a little more like he can breathe again.

“Is that helping at all?” Yuuri asks.  “Tell me if I should stop.”

“Don’t,” Viktor breathes.  “Please don’t.  It’s, it’s helping.”

With the panic and spiraling horrible mess of desolate misery out of the way, it’s easier to just be sad.  Being sad, while still not particularly great, lets him just cry because of the emotion of it, not because of guilt for feeling bad or for crying, and he sniffles piteously as more hot tears leak out of his eyes into Yuuri’s shoulder.  The guilt isn’t choking him anymore, so he actually finds his voice too.

“Thank you,” he mumbles.  “I l-love you.”

“I love you too,” Yuuri answers, but to Viktor’s dismay, his voice cracks on the last word.  Alarmed, Viktor snaps his head up just in time to see Yuuri scrub furiously at his eyes with one hand, the other still pressing firmly into his back.  Horror sweeps over him and his heart wrenches painfully in his chest, fracturing into splinters at the sight of tears pooling in those soft brown eyes. 

“Y-Yuuri?”

Oh, god, he’s gone and made Yuuri cry too, he’s such a mess, why couldn’t he just keep it inside, now Yuuri is sad and it’s all his fault—

“Sorry,” Yuuri sniffles.  “I just—I’m frustrated.”  He lets out a shaky breath and buries his face in Viktor’s hair, holding him close.  He’s _frustrated._   Viktor’s heart sinks, and he closes his eyes again, crumpling in on himself.  His voice, when he manages to find it, is small.

“I’m sorry.”  

“Don’t,” Yuuri cuts him off, the hand in his hair tensing for a moment before he relaxes again, fingers opening to cradle the back of Viktor’s head.  “Don’t apologize.  I just, I _hate_ that you’re hurting, and I can’t just make it better, and you know I cry easily, so…”

He laughs breathlessly, sheepish and rueful, and nuzzles Viktor’s hair, slowly dragging his lips down to press them to the top of his forehead.  Guilt still twists Viktor’s stomach into infathomable knots.  Yuuri is crying because of him.  If he just held it in, if he kept his damn mouth shut, if he just didn’t cry…

“No,” Yuuri murmurs, and belatedly, Viktor remembers that he can feel his guilt, too.  Fuck.  How is he supposed to pretend he’s fine around an empath who just wants to help?  “Vityen’ka, I’m not crying because you look sad.  I’m crying because you _are_ sad.  There’s a difference.”

He sniffles again, his hand leaving Viktor’s hair for a moment to wipe at his eyes, but it returns quickly.  Another desperate sob shudders its way out of Viktor’s chest, leaving him trembling in Yuuri’s arms.

“Y-you deserve _so much_ happiness,” Yuuri adds, voice shaking precariously.  “They did such awful things to you, but you’re the best person in the _world,_ Vitya, I love you so m-much and I wish I could just take all the pain away because I would, I would in a heartbeat, if I could without hurting you, oh, Vitya,” and he sucks in a breath and buries his face in Viktor’s hair again, his arms and legs wrapping protectively around him. 

Viktor clings to him, choking on his own tears.  Yuuri is so good.  Yuuri is so _good_ and Viktor doesn’t know what to do with himself with this much love being poured over him, with all these people who came together to save him, and with this beautiful man with his beautiful heart who is crying because he wants Viktor to be happy.

“You’re safe now,” Yuuri adds, barely audible as he mumbles into Viktor’s hair.  “Safe.  They’ll never touch you again.”

Viktor almost thinks he can believe that.

They cry into each others’ arms for what feels like an eternity, both of them complete messes.  Viktor just clings and sobs, so sad and hurt and upset that he can’t do anything else.  Makkachin curls up against his side at some point, clearly worried about him, and Yuuri takes one hand from Viktor’s back to pet him for a moment, then goes back to cradling Viktor close.  He makes Viktor feel like something precious, something to be treasured and protected.

Eventually, an eternity later, he quiets, exhausted and still sad but mostly all cried out.  Yuuri’s fingers are still carding through his hair, slow and repetitive, and his eyes burn so he keeps them closed.  He’s tired.  Crying is so tiring.

“I want to go home,” he whispers into the stillness, and Yuuri stills.  He doesn’t mean Petersburg.  He means the feeling of safety that he had for that one glorious month in autumn, when his mother was still alive and strong and he spent his days laughing with Yuuri and kissing him until he went weak in the knees and Viktor could tease him.  When he felt like he was finally building real friendships with his allies in court—Mila and Georgi—and when Yura was still just a pouty princeling, still an innocent. 

But that kind of home is gone.

Yuuri presses a slow, lingering kiss to his forehead. 

“I know.”  He kisses his brow, soft and gentle, and Viktor presses a little closer to him out of quiet affection more than anything.  “I wish we could.  But we have each other, and that’ll have to be enough.”

“I love you,” Viktor blurts, again, because somehow Yuuri has the patience of a saint and doesn’t think his neediness and sorrow are ridiculous and uncalled for.  In response, the warm affection around him increases in intensity for a moment.  He sighs and nestles a little closer, comfortable against Yuuri’s chest even if he is still sad.

“I love you, too.”  Yuuri smiles against his temple.  “You should wash your face and drink water.  Crying that much dehydrates you.”

“Mm,” Viktor mumbles in acknowledgment.  He’s tired.  “Don’t wanna move.”

“Well, that’s no good,” Yuuri gently teases.  “Can’t get to the bathroom if you don’t move, you know.”

Viktor shrugs listlessly.  “Oh well.”

Yuuri purses his lips.  Then he shifts, pulling away, and Viktor looks up at him with what he knows is raw vulnerability written across his face.  Why is Yuuri leaving him?

Yuuri kisses his forehead, stands up, and then reaches for him again.  An arm wraps around his shoulders, the other slips under his legs, and—

“There we go,” Yuuri says, scooping Viktor into his arms, blanket and everything.  Viktor is so startled he lets out a yip that makes Makkachin jolt out of his doze with alarm, then wraps one of his arms hurriedly around Yuuri’s neck; the other is pinned to his side by the blanket wrapped around him.  Yuuri kisses his cheek (it must taste like salt from all his crying, really, Yuuri, there’s no need to kiss him right now) and starts carrying him to the bathroom.

“I—I can walk,” Viktor says, because even if that wasn’t _strictly_ true this morning, the after-breakfast painkillers and healing session with the guild mage Rani worked wonders for his muscle fatigue.  Yuuri doesn’t have to carry him, though he’d be lying if he said he isn’t enjoying this at all.  “Yuuri…”

“I know you can,” Yuuri assures, smiling at him with adoration strong enough to pull the sun back above the snowcapped peaks.  “But maybe I just wanted to hold you.”

“Oh,” Viktor says softly.  He lays his head into the crook of Yuuri’s neck, lets Yuuri set him down on the bathroom countertop, clutches the blanket around himself like a cape, and closes his eyes as his beautiful former fiancé gently wipes at his face with a cool, wet washcloth.  Yuuri even applies lotion for him, massaging it into his skin with all the tenderness of a prayer, and kisses him, slow and soft and sweet, when he’s finished.

“You’re going to be okay,” Yuuri murmurs.  “Water now?”

Viktor wraps his legs around him and holds him there for a moment, slumping forward to lean his cheek against Yuuri’s shoudler again.  He just wants to be held.

After a moment or two more, Yuuri gives him a squeeze and withdraws.  “Come on,” he says.  “Or do you want me to carry you again?  I can.”

Viktor slides off the counter and just stares at his feet, sighing.  He is kind of thirsty, now that he thinks about it.  Ugh.  Crying always makes him feel like such a mess.  He’s ready to sleep now, floating in a sea of post-breakdown exhaustion.

Yuuri leads him back to the bed, presses a glass of water into his hand, and waits until he’s drunk most of it before placing it on the nightstand.  Viktor sighs.  He’s tired, and thinking is hard, and he doesn’t want today to be happening anymore. 

The blanket wrapped around his shoulders gets tucked a little more securely around him as Yuuri adjusts it, and Viktor blinks up at him, tired and sad and wanting nothing more than to curl up in his arms and stop thinking.  The blanket helps, though.  It makes the world smaller.

Yuuri hugs him over it and kisses the corner of his mouth.  (He’s always liked little corner-of-the-lips kisses like that.  Viktor missed those so much last month.)  “You look like you need to be cozy right now,” he says, answering an unasked question.  “Lie down and get under the comforter?  We can just call it an early night and cuddle, what do you say?”

“That, um.  That sounds good,” Viktor agrees.  He keeps the blanket clutched about his shoulders as he crawls under the comforters, and Yuuri climbs into bed after putting his glasses aside and turning off the lamp.  A few moments later, his arm wraps around Viktor’s waist from behind, tugging him against his chest.

“Comfy?” Yuuri asks.  A kiss is pressed to the back of his neck.  Viktor almost turns around to get a proper kiss, but doesn’t because he doesn’t want to dislodge Yuuri’s arm from around him.

“Very,” he answers instead, his voice soft.  Another kiss.

“I’m glad,” Yuuri hums.  “Try to sleep, but if you can’t, tell me.  Or wake me up if you need to.  Okay?”

“Okay,” Viktor mumbles.  He might actually even mean it.  “Are you sleeping now?”

“Mmm,” Yuuri hums.  “Maybe in a little while.  I’m still a bit awake.”

Viktor’s desire to hold him overpowers the little fear of rejection that tells him to stay still, so he rolls over and wraps an arm about Yuuri’s waist and slips his leg between Yuuri’s knees.  Yuuri smiles at him, just barely visible thanks to the hints of moonlight slipping around the curtain, and Viktor closes his eyes, sliding down until he can tuck his head under Yuuri’s chin.

“Yuuri?”

“Yes?”

He takes a careful breath.  “Tell me a story?”

Yuuri’s hand wanders into his hair again, stroking it with soft and soothingly repetitive patterns.  Viktor sighs as Yuuri hums thoughtfully. 

“Okay,” he says, voice soft.  “A story with a happy ending.  Once upon a time, there was a prince, the most beautiful prince in all the world…”

That night, Viktor has a blessedly dreamless sleep.

 

* * *

“I’m so _cold,”_ Katsudon gasps, peeling off his snow-soaked gloves and hat.  Now that they’re indoors and not on the ski slopes, all the snow is melting, which must suck for him.  Yuri, who is quite cozy in a light sweater and fire elemental warmth, smirks.

“Sucks to be you,” he grins.  “I don’t think it’s that bad, personally.”

Katsudon levels him the closest thing to a dirty look that Katsudon, pushover that he is, ever gives anyone.  “There is _melting snow_ dripping down the back of my _neck.”_

Yuri shrugs.  “Sounds like a personal problem.”

“Shush, baby Yuri,” the assassin dude, Chulanont, says, rubbing his arms vigorously.  “It’s cold as hell.  I’m from _Thonburi!_ I’ve never seen this much snow in my _life!”_

“I’m cold,” Katsudon repeats, shaking his head.  “So cold.”

Giacometti drapes his arm about Katsudon’s shoulders.  “Ah, mon ami, we can’t have you being cold, now can we?  I’m sure we can warm you up in no time—”

_NOPE._

Yuri, who is very massively _not_ witnessing this with his own two eyes, stares at Beka with an incredulous pout until Beka, impervious-to-bullshit fucker that he is, shrugs, seeming more amused than anything.  Giacometti is still purring at Katsudon, and nobody else is doing anything about this, so Yuri kicks him. 

“Get off him, fuckhead!”

Irksomely, Giacometti just laughs.  “That’s cute,” he says.  “The little one is so invested in making sure nobody runs off with Viktor’s favorite.”

_“Don’t call me little!”_

“Yeah, Chris, don’t call him little,” Chulanont pipes up.  Yuri is about to give him a look of grudging approval when he adds, “He’s _baby_ Yuri, clearly.”

“I hate all of you,” Yuri snarls.  “You’re all terrible and I’m fucking _leaving.”_

“Bring me some hot chocolate on your way back, would you?” Katsudon asks, wrapping his arms around himself.  Giacometti coos at him and tucks him under his arm, and Katsudon just huffs out a laugh instead of shoving him off like he _should_ be doing.  Why does Yuri have to do everything around here himself?

“I’m not your fucking errand boy.”  He favors Katsudon with a glare, and the only reason that he doesn’t kick the door to the sitting room down is that Beka must have anticipated what he wants to do, because he neatly steps in front of Yuri and opens it quietly first.  Dammit.

They all file into the room where Viktor is waiting with Makkachin and Lord Hirsch, Giacometti’s steward.  Makkachin is snoozing contentedly in front of the hearth, while Viktor is settled cozily in an armchair with a blanket in his lap.  Lord Hirsch is across from him, sipping a steaming cup of tea that Yuri can _see_ Katsudon eyeing longingly.

“You’re back!” Viktor exclaims joyfully, sitting up.  Yuri rolls his eyes, but he still can’t bring himself to pretend he’s not happy to see his big stupid cousin, not after all the bullshit lately, so he just smiles a very tiny smile and plops down on the couch.

“Obviously.”

“I’m cold,” Katsudon whines again.  Giacometti laughs, his hand slipping from Katsudon’s shoulder as they walk into the sitting room.  “Christophe, where do you keep all the tea in this place, I haven’t seen a single kettle—oh!”

“Your Highness,” Lord Hirsch interrupts blandly.  He’s pretty young for a steward, maybe Giacometti’s age himself, and he looks snazzy enough with his dark hair tied into a ponytail at the base of his head, but the sarcasm in his voice is dry and sharp enough to cut the air.  Yuri decides immediately that he likes this dude.  “Might I remind you that groping your guests’ asses does not, in fact, help them get warmer in any way?”

“I beg to differ,” Giacometti says, winking.  “Look how pink he blushes!  He _must_ be warmer already.”

“Chris,” Viktor complains, laughing.  “Don’t tease him, that’s mean.”

Katsudon just rolls his eyes and steps aside, pushing Giacometti’s arm away.  “I appreciate the sentiment, don’t get me wrong, but I’m afraid that if anyone in this room is going to fondle me back to temperatures of a human being as opposed to an icicle, you wouldn’t be my first choice.”

“I hate all of you,” Yuri reminds the room at large.  Viktor grins at him, actually grins, like he hasn’t in ages, and Yuri sticks his tongue out very maturely.

Katsudon, meanwhile, just makes a beeline for Viktor’s armchair, stripping his outer coat on the way and dropping it by the hearth.  He steals the blanket, settling himself between Viktor’s legs and spreading it over the both of them while he curls up and nestles close, burying his face in Viktor’s neck.  Is he seriously that cold?  It’s not _that_ bad outside.

Viktor looks delighted with this development.  “Okay, but wait!”  He hugs Katsudon close.  “When did the two of you get this close?  You’re friends now!  That’s so exciting!”

“You wound me,” Giacometti drawls.  He sprawls easily over the couch Yuri is sitting on, thankfully on the other side of Beka, and winks.  “Of course we’re friends now.  As delightful as Yuuri’s ass is, I never would have touched it if I thought it would make him uncomfortable.”

 _“Christophe,”_ Katsudon groans.

“Well, it certainly did make your face warmer,” Viktor teases.  He pats Katsudon’s cheek, too, all placating and shit, and somehow, Katsudon doesn’t even look mildly annoyed.  Yuri thinks that frankly, being all lovey-dovey like they are must be shit, if it makes you stop reacting when people poke fun at you, but _whatever._

Then again, Katsudon has been making no secret of the fact that he’s very, very happy to have Viktor back, and Yuri figures they do deserve that much.  Doesn’t mean they’re not ridiculous, but, again.  _Whatever._

Chulanont perches on the back of the couch, then lays down across the top of the cushions.  Yuri would call it precarious if he didn’t know the guy was a shadow assassin.  “If we’re talking about ways to make Yuuri blush,” he starts, grinning deviously, and Katsudon yelps.

“No!  No!  We’re not!  We were here to talk _politics!”_ he wails, snuggling down into the blanket and Viktor’s arms as if he can hide from the embarrassing stories that Yuri now _has_ to hear about.  “We are on serious business today!  We gave the paparazzi photos of our ski trip and now we’re talking _politics_ and our _next moves, not_ the thing with the chili pepper sweater, Phichit, don’t you dare bring that up, I _know_ you were going to—”

“Well, now that you’ve said it, you _have_ to tell us about it,” Giacometti says smoothly, winking.  “Don’t leave us in suspense, Yuuri dearest.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything!” Katsudon declares, drawing the blanket up to his chin and visibly pouting.  He turns and buries his face in Viktor’s neck again.

“Your nose is cold,” Viktor hums.  Yuri rolls his eyes again when he kisses Katsudon’s temple, but he can’t make himself stop smiling, even if they are being ridiculous and all over each other.  This is how stuff used to feel at Petersburg Palace, before everything went to shit.  Viktor and Katsudon would cling, everyone else would tease, people would laugh, stuff would be nice.  Life was better back then.  Maybe it can get back to being that way.

If only he could just stay here.  He’s starting to realize that maybe it wasn’t ever really about being at the palace or not.  It was more about who was there with him.

“Hey,” Beka murmurs, nudging his arm.  “You good?”

Yuri gives him an odd look.  “Yeah.  I’m fine.  Why’d you ask, weirdo?”

Beka shrugs.  “Thought you might be disappointed about having to leave soon.”

Yuri frowns.  He _is_ disappointed about that, frankly, but it’s not like he can _do_ much about it.  “I’m fine.”

“Okay.”  Beka seems to accept that answer at face value.  Yuri elbows his ribs just because he can, and Beka snorts.

“Yuuri, you should do the sweater thing again!” Chulanont calls cheerily.  He even throws in a wink, waving an arm in a carefree loop.  “It’d warm you up, I bet!”

 _“No!”_ Katsudon huffs.  “I was _tipsy!_ You know I turn into a complete idiot when I’m tipsy!”

“You’re really not helping with my curiosity, darling mine,” Viktor coos, smiling like a doe-eyed, lovesick fool.  “I need to hear this story now.”

“He cried for like, an hour,” Chulanont says, a little gleefully. 

Viktor’s face falls immediately.  “Oh!  I don’t like it when he cries!  Why are we laughing at that?”

“It wasn’t sad crying,” Chulanont reassures.  “It was just really funny.”

“I hate you, Phichit,” Katsudon groans.  He pulls the blanket up over his head.  Viktor kisses him through it, and Giacometti wolf-whistles.

“Are we going to talk politics, or should I just take my leave?” Lord Hirsch asks, clearly getting fed up.  Yuri has to reiterate: he likes this dude. 

“Don’t pretend you aren’t having even just a little fun, Yann,” Giacometti says indolently, offering his steward a lazy smile.  “We’re hilarious and you know it.”

Hirsch favors him with a very pointedly acerbic look.  “No.”

“You have to at least agree that Yuuri’s ass is a topic worth getting off track for,” Giacometti persists.  “Have you _seen_ it?”

The blanket lump in Viktor’s lap makes a vague noise of complaint, and Viktor laughs, nuzzling his face into it.  Yuri throws up his hands.

“Am I the _only_ person here who isn’t fucking interested in Katsudon’s ass?” he complains.  “For fuck’s sake.”

“You are not,” Lord Hirsch says dryly.  “No offense to Prince Katsuki, but I honestly could not care less.”

“Thank you,” the blanket lump says, voice muffled.  “See?  We’re here to talk business, not my personal life or anything else like that.”

“Yuuri,” Viktor wheedles, “at least come out of there?  I like being able to look at you, dear.”

“Oh, that’s _precious,”_ Chulanont coos.  Katsudon’s bodyguard, who has been quietly sitting in the corner this entire time, smiles a tiny little smile and nods her agreement.  She’s said so few words that Yuri doesn’t know what to make of her at all, but he does appreciate that he’s taller than her by a decent amount.  She’s the only person in this room he can say that about.  Fucking Hirsch is taller than Viktor.  Yuri doesn’t like him for that.

Katsudon’s head peeps out of the blanket, and he looks up at Viktor with shiny eyes and pink cheeks.  “Oh.”

“Much better!” Viktor cheers.  Katsudon pecks his cheek.

“Sometimes, I don’t know how this group of idiots pulled that entire thing off last week,” Yuri grouses, half to himself, half to Beka.  “Can anyone here actually stop goofing off long enough to make a fucking solid plan and pull it off and shit?  Did I just dream that entire thing up?”

Beka snorts, a little smile tugging at his lips.  “I think, in the wake of a plan that successful, everyone deserves to relax and be stupid for a while, yes?”

Yuri swats his arm.  “Stop being logical and nice in the same sentence.  Too fucking princely.  Stop it.”

Beka is definitely amused now, eyes glittering.  “We’re all princes.  We should act like it.”

“Yeah, and acting princely is flirting outrageously with a man hiding under a blanket,” Yuri snorts.  Viktor lifts his head from Katsudon’s hair at the playful jibe.

“I’m not a prince,” he points out, and though he’s still smiling, those words bring the room back down from its state of levity.  “I’m a king.  A king without a crown, maybe, but still a king.”

There’s a heartbeat of silence.  Giacometti sits up properly, leaning forward on his knees, and Chulanont stops reclining, resuming a perch as if he’s a spring coiled to release.  Yuri straightens a bit too, feeling a little bad now.  He didn’t mean to point out something stressful like that. 

“You’ll have your crown,” Katsudon says quietly.  He’s still ridiculously swaddled in his blanket burrito, but his voice is serious and soft.  It sounds like a promise.  “We’re not done fixing this.”

Viktor kisses his forehead and says nothing.  His lingering doubt is evident to everyone in the room.

Finally, after another moment or two of silence, he nods to Lord Hirsch.  “Yann.  You were going to fill us all in on current plans and the state of affairs?”

Lord Hirsch nods briskly, leaning back and resting his ankle on his knee as he folds his arms.  “Yes.  As you are all aware, Prince Plisetsky and Prince Altin will have to return to Ruthenia at the end of this week, and Prince Plisetsky will be resuming an active role in court there.  I believe we should discuss priorities for his participation there.”

“We need to know what Ivanovich and his crew want from Ruthenia’s crown,” Katsudon says immediately.  There’s a calculating look in his eyes, dark and deep.  “They wanted to go to war with Hinomoto when I left court.  I don’t trust that that ambition has disappeared.”

“Mila might know,” Yuri blurts out, and all eyes turn to him.  He fidgets with the tassels on the cushion next to him and stares down at it, a little self-conscious.  “I mean.  I don’t know.  I haven’t been able to talk to her lately.  But she might.  She’s been trying to find out.  So.”

“You’re right,” Katsudon muses, sitting up and pursing his lips thoughtfully.  His arm leaves the blanket to wrap comfortably around Viktor’s neck.  “At the ball, I spoke to Princess Crispino and hinted to her that Mila should talk to her about circumstances.  She also seemed interested in keeping in touch when I suggested it, so I think I was more or less successful in setting up an avenue of communication there, albeit a roundabout one.  I know it’s not the most effective or optimal, but…”

“No, you did well,” Viktor assures him, and Yuri almost does a double-take.  Viktor still looks like a clingy barnacle octopus of a man, curled in around Katsudon with their blanket, but his face is pensive and his eyes are narrowed and cooler than they were a moment ago—he looks like Viktor the King of Ruthenia, not just Viktor the lovey-dovey sap, and the contrast is striking. 

It gives Yuri some kind of hope.  Despite everything he’s been through and how sad he’s seemed for the past few days, always seeking affection from Katsudon or quietly blinking back tears of vehement frustration at his own weakness, Viktor is still fighting.

“You did well,” he says again.  “Princess Crispino is a good ally to have in this mess of things.  Ruthenia and Víteliú are historically tied through the Nikiforovs, so she certainly has an investment in keeping turmoil away from my throne.  Ivanovich and his cronies would rather strengthen bonds with Víteliú than Hinomoto, but even with that knowledge, the risk that comes with a plan as desperately warmongering as theirs should be quite a turn-off to the Crispinos.”

“True,” Katsudon says.  His hand slides up from Viktor’s shoulder over his cheek to start running idly through his hair, and Viktor leans into his touch, but neither of them seems distracted.  It’s like they’re just exchanging affection as naturally as breathing.  “I haven’t told Princess Crispino anything about the treason, though.  Should I?”

“I think she should know,” Giacometti says, tapping a finger to his chin.  “Officially, I can’t take a stance, considering that as Crown Prince, I am quite happy not to drag Elvetia into this mess.  But more personally, I would be willing to make the appeal to Princess Crispino with you, to provide something of a joint front, if you want.”

“Make sure you make the distinction clear to her, as well,” Lord Hirsch notes.

“Of course,” Giacometti nods.

“All the same, I think if she were to be told that Ivanovich wants to declare war on Hinomoto and was planning to have me executed as a scapegoat,” Katsudon starts, and then pauses for a brief second to look at Viktor with a flash of something in his eyes that passes too fast for Yuri to see, “I… ah, I think that would be a sufficient argument for why she could help us out.” 

Giacometti nods again.  “Sounds good to me,” he says.  “Víteliú might not have a mutual defense agreement with Ruthenia, but—”

“They do,” Viktor interrupts, his voice a little flat.  “It’s a secret clause in the agreement that was negotiated earlier this year.  The parties in court that opposed my mother were rather insistent on it.  In hindsight, knowing about the desire to go to war with Hinomoto, I can see why.”

Katsudon gives Viktor another significant look that Yuri can’t quite decipher.  Viktor softens slightly.

“So… what does that mean we’re doing now?” Yuri asks, folding his arms across his chest.  “You guys talk to Mila through Princess Sara, and Beka and I go to Petersburg and just… hang out?”

“Well, kind of?” Katsudon shrugs.  “You go back to Petersburg and buy time in court so Mila can figure out what’s going on.  Since they went for the crown, they must want something that can only be easily accomplished with the administrative power of the throne.  Mila can probably handle figuring that out, though.”

“So can I,” Yuri scowls.  “I found out enough so far, didn’t I?”

“I’m not denying that,” Katsudon says quickly.  “Your findings have been invaluable and you know it, Yura.  I just… want you to be careful.  Please.  I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“I’m not a _child,”_ Yuri huffs, but there’s no heat in the words—they’re little more than a token protest.  Katsudon took the wind out of his sails by implicitly reminding him of what happened that first night after he got caught spilling secrets.  “I can… I can take care of myself, you know.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Katsudon agrees, “but Yura—”

“You _are_ a child,” Viktor interrupts, somewhere between flat and gentle.  Yuri scowls at him irritably.

“Don’t patronize me!”

“Yura,” Viktor says, very cool and deliberate.  “You are a child because you are younger than the rest of us and that is a fact.  I’m not going to argue this with you.  Nobody is saying you aren’t mature.  But we _are_ saying that your age makes you look vulnerable, especially in the eyes of people such as Ivanovich and his lackeys, and they can and will target you for it.  If I’m not mistaken, you should already know that.”

“Vitya,” Katsudon murmurs.  “No need to be harsh.”

Before Yuri can react with an angry outburst to cover up the fact that those words hit home a little _too_ well, Beka’s hand settles on his shoulder, warm and solid.  “He’s not a liability.”

“I didn’t say he is,” Viktor returns evenly.  Yuri glares at him and tries not to pout.  “All I said is that he is in a more vulnerable position than the rest of us, so he needs to recognize that and play his cards accordingly.”

God.  For someone who got rescued only because Yuri couldn’t keep his nose in his own business, Viktor sounds way too sure of himself. 

…Then again, he _is_ right and Yuri knows it.  Everyone in this room is specialized at shit and knows what they’re doing, except him.  He feels like a complete moron sometimes, not that he’d ever admit it.  But Viktor and Katsudon and even stupid Giacometti are all amazing at politics and Chulanont is a fucking _shadow assassin,_ and he doesn’t know Yann Hirsch or Katsudon’s Rika very well but they have to be good at their shit too if they’re with Katsudon and Giacometti, and Yuri fucking _hates_ knowing that all of these people are better equipped to handle court than he is.  They’re better at it, and yet he’s the one who has to go _deal_ with it.

“Whatever,” he finally says, definitely not sulking, and Katsudon looks at him, clearly concerned.

But it’s Chulanont who says something first.  “Chin up, baby Yuri!”  He taps his own chin and lifts it.  “You’re just in a tight spot because Ivanovich knows you’re onto him, so you have to lie low and play a stealth game for a bit.  Sneaky-sneaky.”

Beka squeezes his shoulder.  “And in that sense,” he says, speaking up again, “we have an advantage.  Time is on our side.  With a spell like the one they seem to have been using to create the false King Nikiforov, if I’m not mistaken, they would need to be renewing it very frequently.  If my understanding of the spell is correct, without a constant supply of blood to fuel it, it should fade within a week or two.”

“They have longer than that,” Viktor says, his mouth pressing into a firm line that tugs downward at the corners.  Katsudon in his lap looks quietly and coldly furious, and Yuri has to do a double take before quickly reevaluating his previous statement that Katsudon is a softie and pushover at all times.  This look is the kind that could freeze plasma solid.  It’s more than a little intimidating.  “They would always draw more than they needed to ensure they had extra in case of a miscellaneous accident.”

Yuri has to suppress a shudder.  He remembers watching the cell through the keyhole, remembers Sergei collecting vials of blood already set aside for him, taunting Viktor about Katsudon’s supposed death the entire time.  It’s a little bit incredible that Viktor is even talking about it so calmly right now.

“I am actually going to kill them,” Katsudon mutters.  Viktor looks startled and kisses his temple again, and just like that the grand fury in Katsudon’s eyes softens back into fondness and a touch of sorrow.  “You didn’t deserve any of that.”

Viktor shrugs and smiles blandly.  Katsudon stares at him for a long moment.  Some kind of understanding seems to pass between them, because Viktor sighs and Katsudon relaxes into his arms again.

“I do wonder if they might try to get you back, Viktor,” Giacometti muses.  “I know we were hiding you to begin with because of that possibility, but I have to confess I’m curious.  Do you think they’d be that desperate?”

Viktor shrugs again.  “I don’t know.”

“Hmmm.”

“Well, if they try, they aren’t getting away with it this time,” Katsudon declares, twisting around in Viktor’s lap to look him in the eyes as if making a point in a continued discussion.  Have they talked about this before?  “Because you’re safe now.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence, my love,” Viktor says dryly, “but if I was subdued while at my full strength the first time, I don’t think I’d stand a chance against a kidnapper in _this_ state.”

Chulanont clears his throat.  “Well.  They sent a shadow assassin after you the first time, right?”

Viktor nods.  “He had elemental inhibitors on the blade of his dagger.”

“How fortunate it is, then,” Chulanont drawls slowly, “that you have not one, not even two, but _three_ professionally trained, highly skilled shadow assassins all hanging out around here who have an investment in keeping you safe and unharmed?”

While Viktor flounders, clearly at a loss as to how to respond to that question, Giacometti wordlessly raises a hand over his shoulder for a high five, which Chulanont returns quite enthusiastically.

“Score one for the cutest of the assassins,” Giacometti says, winking.  “Congratulations!  You’ve thrown Viktor’s lack of isolation in his face.  Give him a few minutes to figure out how to function again, he’s very used to pushing everyone away and running himself into an early grave whenever he has problems.”

“Chris,” Viktor complains.

Katsudon squishes Viktor’s cheeks between both hands.  “You,” he says, “are _not_ dealing with this alone this time, and you better keep that in mind.  We are here for you, whether you like it or not, and you can’t get rid of us no matter how hard you try.  Got it?”

Yuri actually laughs out loud at the flabbergasted look on Viktor’s face.

“I do _not_ isolate myself in response to every problem I ever have,” he contradicts, pouting, a ridiculous expression that’s only exaggerated by the way his face is still smushed between Katsudon’s hands.  “…Only most of them.”

“Yuuri,” Giacometti teases, “why’d you have to go and fall for the most ridiculous princeling you could get your hands on?”

“I like having my hands on this one,” Katsudon responds with an easy wink, while simultaneously Viktor retorts, “He didn’t fall for you, actually!”

Giacometti just laughs.

Ugh.  What _idiots_.  This room is full of morons.  Yuri is going to miss them all so fucking much when he goes back to Ruthenia.

“I want hot chocolate,” he decides.  “Are we done talking serious shit?  Waiting game, whatever, Viktor stop being a self-isolating fuck, et cetera?”

“If I’m a self-isolating fuck, you’re a little baby.”  Viktor smiles smugly.

“He’s not denying the fuckery,” Chulanont stage-whispers.  “That means he knows you’re right.”

“I think that’s the most of the politics, yes,” Katsudon says, finally letting go of Viktor’s face to run a hand through his hair.  “That, and we’re going to be in touch with Mila through Víteliú if at all possible.  We’re playing a waiting game, figuring out what specifically Ivanovich wants to do with the crown, and convincing the most beautiful self-isolating fuck in the world to let people take care of him.”

“I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted,” Viktor complains, and Katsudon grins for a second before it fades.

“Mari and I are still worried about the thought of being forced into war,” he adds, more quietly.  “I really hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Viktor gives him a mighty squeeze under the blanket.  “It won’t.  We won’t let that happen.”

“I know,” Katsudon says more softly.  “I just worry.”

“Well, if push comes to shove, I can always just take our treasonous pal out,” Chulanont shrugs.  “Won’t really solve the bigger problem in the long run, but it might get his faction set back a bit.”

“I’m certain they have backup plans in case any one of them gets taken out,” Katsudon sighs.  “They’ve been planning this for ages.  I can’t believe we never knew Ivanovich was a philologist the entire time.  That stranglespell… I had no idea for so long.”

Viktor looks a little pained.  Katsudon pets his hair soothingly and sighs.

“At least it’s gone now,” Giacometti offers soothingly.  Yuri remembers—he got rid of it the same night they all got back to Ruthenia, sitting with Viktor’s sleeping form and working his magic for almost an hour to carefully purge Viktor of all vestiges and layers of the spell.  Katsudon was there, too, sitting up late into the night and soothing away all the nightmares that plagued Viktor’s sleep—apparently he eventually fell asleep too, sitting on the bed with Viktor.  Not that Yuri would know, because he passed the fuck out pretty soon after they arrived.

“We’re one step ahead now,” Katsudon adds.  “We have Mila working to find answers, and time is on our side, not theirs.  Everything is going to be okay, I think.”

“That’s the spirit!” Chulanont cheers.  “Listen.  Everything is gonna be fine, so all of you should stop moping around and invest in some hot chocolate, lots of blankets, and some New Year’s Eve cheer.  I don’t care if we have a few hours until the fireworks, we’ve got shit going for us and that means we should celebrate tonight!”

Lord Hirsch stands, dusting his coat off.  “Alright.  I assume we’re more or less done talking politics here, then?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Giacometti agrees, leaning back languidly on the couch.  “I’m here for some mimosas and pre-firework celebrating if you all are.”

“Oh my god, I don’t want to see you two drunk dancing again,” Yuri groans.  “I died of secondhand embarrassment.”

“Are there videos?” Viktor asks eagerly.

Katsudon groans.  Then he seems to reconsider and just sighs.  “Actually?  It wasn’t worse than the time with Prince Michele, so… I guess you didn’t miss much.”

“That’s still disappointing,” Viktor says.  “I like watching you dance, Yuuri.”

Katsudon looks very pleased with this statement, his face a little pink.  “I like dancing with you better than I like having you watch me dance, though.”

“I can’t believe how cute they are,” Chulanont comments to the rest of the room, grinning.  “Who the hell allowed that?”

“I don’t know if I’ve ever seen Yuuri smile this much,” Rika says softly, her cheeks a little pink.  Yuri eyes her speculatively.  “It’s nice.”

He’s not going to agree out loud, but yeah.  It kind of is.

 

* * *

They’re snuggled up together under a [comforter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5YyqwHeZKoE) that spills haphazardly over the side of the couch, watching the snow flurry outside.  Viktor seems to find it calming, his eyes soft and pensive as he stares at the window, and to Yuuri, he feels at peace.  Yuuri slowly pets his hair and watches him, instead of the snow.  He’s still pale and exhausted after his ordeal, but the light is brighter in his eyes these days, and his smiles are becoming more frequent.  Oh, Yuuri loves him.

Viktor sighs, head pillowed comfortably on Yuuri’s chest, and reaches up until his fingers brush Yuuri’s cheek.  They’re cool.  Yuuri kisses his palm and leans into his touch.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

“Hey,” Viktor answers, a flicker of a smile pulling at his lips.

“Hungry yet?” Yuuri asks, closing his eyes as Viktor’s thumb strokes his cheekbone.  “We can send for dinner to be brought up.”

“Mmm,” Viktor hums noncommitally.  “In a few minutes.  I don’t want to move yet.”

Yuuri laughs softly and squeezes him tight, full of fondness.  It’s time to make up for all the time they’ve spent apart—he never wants to let go, ever!  “Yeah, me neither.”

Viktor cracks a grin at that.  He scoots up, pulling the comforter with him so it’s tucked under his chin like he’s a cozy little baby all swaddled up, and tucks his face into the crook of Yuuri’s neck.  “I love you.”

Yuuri leans his cheek against Viktor’s temple.  “I love you too, sweetheart.”

“I missed you,” Viktor adds, softer, sadder.  He doesn’t seem to want to talk much about what bits and pieces he recalls from his drugged stupor, but with every little hint alluding to the suffering he endured, Yuuri’s desire to punch Ivanovich in the face grows exponentially, as does his conviction to hold Viktor close forever and ever and ever.  “You know, I really thought… when he said they sent a shadow assassin after you… I…”

He swallows hard, and Yuuri doesn’t miss the catch in his voice.  It makes his heart wrench.  He was told that there was a _possibility_ Viktor might have been killed, and it wrecked him.  Viktor was told Yuuri was assassinated, and was left to stew in his own grief with nobody there to console him.

“I’m alright,” he reassures softly, and Viktor presses a slow kiss to his collarbone, lingering for several seconds.  “I’m alright, Vitya.  We’re safe.”

“I thought it was all my fault,” Viktor admits, hiding his face in Yuuri’s neck again.  “Oh, god, Yuuri, I thought… after all the pain I put you through when you left, you still—I still failed to keep you safe, and I—I couldn’t save you, and—”

“Oh, _Vitya,”_ Yuuri breathes, nuzzling his face into Viktor’s hair.  “Oh, my poor sweet Vitya.  It’s okay.  It’s okay.  I’m here.  None of that was real.  I’m here.”

Viktor lets out a shaky breath.  “It was awful,” he whispers.  Yuuri can’t see his face, but he knows he’s blinking back tears.

“I love you,” Yuuri blurts out, kissing his hair.  “I love you so much, I love you, I love you, I love you…”

Viktor’s hand slides up from his chest to his neck, as if he’s trying to shield Yuuri even while they lie together, safe and warm and peaceful.  “I love you, dearest heart,” he murmurs.  “Oh, Yuuri.”

Yuuri lifts his head and tips Viktor’s chin up, leaning down a little so he can press his forehead to his beloved’s.  Viktor’s eyes are a little too bright, contrasting sharply with the bags under his eyes.  Yuuri kisses him softly, cradling him close, and caresses his jaw.  Viktor melts into him, the defensive tension in his body draining away like sugar melting in the rain.  Their legs are tangled together, warm under the blanket, and he can hear the soft little desperate whine in Viktor’s mouth as he breaks the kiss.

“We’re safe,” he reminds him, pecking the tip of his nose.  “We’re safe, and we’re going to be okay, and I love you to the moon and back and then some.”

Viktor flickers a smile at him, lips pink and soft.  Yuuri steals a quick kiss again, unable to resist, and strokes his thumb over one of those sharp, beautiful cheekbones.

“I love you to Mars and back, then,” he says, the little teasing lilt in his voice at odds with the deep tenderness in his eyes.  He looks so soft and sweet and content right now—and he feels so _safe,_ snuggled up in Yuuri’s arms—that Yuuri could cry.  God, he has missed this.  Knowing that being with him makes Viktor feel secure and cozy and warm… it’s a good feeling.

“Then I love you to Jupiter and back,” he answers, smiling, and this time Viktor kisses him, slow and unhurried.  There’s no heat; it’s just the two of them, enjoying their togetherness, being in love.

“Saturn,” Viktor teases, and Yuuri grins, nuzzling his nose. 

“We could keep going until we run out of planets,” he answers, kissing one of the little freckles on Viktor’s cheek, under his eye.  “Should we just call it a truce now and save some time?”

“I think you’re just saying that because you’re embarrassed to say _Uranus_ ,” Viktor answers, just like the very mature and regal adult that he is, and Yuuri bursts into laughter, tipping his head back.  Viktor seizes the opportunity to nuzzle his throat and press kisses to the underside of his jaw, sending shivers down Yuuri’s spine.  Yuuri gasps in surprise, then laughs again, breathy and soft, and tangles his fingers in Viktor’s hair.

“You,” he murmurs, “are a silly, ridiculous, and beautiful man.”

Viktor doesn’t answer, apparently more interested in pressing tender little kisses along the curve of Yuuri’s neck to his shoulder, and Yuuri closes his eyes with a contented sigh.  Viktor is warm and heavy in his arms and those kisses feel _divine,_ and the comforter makes the world shrink down to just this little bubble—the two of them, and nothing else.

Viktor eventually tucks his head into the crook of Yuuri’s neck again, his arm draped around his shoulders, and Yuuri pulls the comforter up again.  Viktor lets out a little contented mewl like a sleepy kitten and closes his eyes, tracing idle patterns into Yuuri’s shoulder.  Yuuri keeps petting his hair, running his fingers through it and lightly caressing his scalp.

Outside, the snow is starting to fall more heavily, in clumps more than flurries.  He watches it for a few minutes and keeps stroking Viktor’s hair.  The snowstorm soothes him, he said earlier, makes the ice elemental magic in him perk up and sing in his blood, reminding him that it’s there now, that he isn’t powerless anymore. Yuuri loves him so much.

“You know,” Viktor eventually says, quiet and pensive again, “I’d give up my crown for you.”

Yuuri’s fingers still.

“I’m not saying that I’m going to,” Viktor adds, his eyes still closed.  “But if it was a choice between the throne and you… I wouldn’t even have to think about it.”

Yuuri marvels at that, because the throne is everything Viktor’s spent his life preparing for, is everything his family has worked for in the past, is…

_Sometimes I think that somewhere along the way to becoming the perfect prince, I lost myself._

Viktor told him that months ago, what feels like a lifetime ago.  Yuuri considers it again, considers his words now, and kisses the top of his head.

“I hope it never comes to that,” he says honestly, “but I’m… I’m glad I’m good for you.  Because I’d always choose you, too.”

“We could run off and elope together,” Viktor says, tracing a heart on Yuuri’s shoulder.  “Get a little house in the countryside somewhere, have a nice garden, farm our own food, and never deal with any of this again…”

“Mmm, we could,” Yuuri agrees, stroking his hair again.  They’ve been avoiding talking about the future for them, for their relationship, both of them maybe a little apprehensive thanks to all their uncertainty, but Yuuri knows that whatever comes, he will fight for them to stay together.  After everything, they deserve that much, no matter what happens next.

Viktor shifts against him and lets out a contented little sigh, and he smiles, continuing. 

“I like the sound of that.  We could adopt some dogs to keep Makkachin company, too.  And cook together, and watch sunsets from our little front porch.”

“I could bring you a bouquet of fresh-picked flowers from our garden every day,” Viktor murmurs.  “Would you like that?”

“Not as much as I’d like waking up next to you every day,” Yuuri answers honestly, “but it would come close.  I’d cook you katsudon often.  It’d be satisfying after spending all day working in the garden.”

He considers, for just a moment, Viktor shirtless as he kneels in a plot of tomatoes and corn, pulling weeds with care, framed by golden sunlight that makes the greenery pop and makes him absolutely glow.  It’s a very appealing image, especially because it makes him blush.

“It would be a good life,” Viktor says, his voice soft and his words a little slurred from drowsiness.  He feels safe and cozy, and Yuuri sends him a little nudge of affection as he presses a kiss into his hair.

“It would,” he agrees.  “We’ll keep it as a backup plan.”

Viktor hums in agreement. 

Outside, the snow continues to fall, cloudy-white against the dark sky, and they really ought to get dinner sent up to them soon, but for now, Yuuri is more than happy to just lie there, holding the love of his life close to his chest.  After all, this is the happiest he’s been in weeks.

And when he finally asks about dinner again only to find that Viktor has fallen asleep in his arms, he can’t even say he’s surprised.  He just smiles to himself, and figures that a little nap can’t hurt anyone.

Closing his eyes, he nuzzles his face into Viktor’s hair and sighs a soft, breathy “Love you,” snuggling down into the blanket.  They’re together now, and that’s what matters.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> check that fluff out!!! wow can you believe i had it in me
> 
> 1\. **IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT:** a combination of school, dance, and nanowrimo prep is gearing up to kick my ass into next year. as a result, _trfl will be on hiatus until the end of november!_ follow [my blog on tumblr](http://www.adreamingsongbird.tumblr.com) for updates (and if you're interested in my original work, that's where i'll be talking about it as i work through nanowrimo! ♥)
> 
> 2\. nice slow chapter hehe. the song that the title came from, is, of course, "can't help falling in love" by elvis (love the original, also do recommend haley reinhart's cover)
> 
> 3\. excitingly, with the addition of this chapter, trfl is now the longest fic i've ever written!!!! this is so exciting!!!!!!
> 
> 4\. shoutout to those of you who leave comments on every chapter. i read every single one and i love you guys. thank you for making this a fun experience for both of us!!!
> 
> next time: it only takes a few tumbling pebbles to cause an avalanche, and winter is your friend, is it not, my dear?


	17. if this were my last glimpse of winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A plan gets set into motion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for discussions of trauma and the repercussions thereof?

 

Afternoon [sunlight](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nvr9uZ6IIiw) spills through the sitting room windows, but Mila doesn’t feel very warmed by its touch.  Not even the delicate cup of steaming tea in her hands or the lightly charmed cloak around her shoulders can make her feel fully safe, cozy, or relaxed. 

Not in this room.  Not with these people.

At her side, Anya laughs at something Lady Sokolova said, and Mila forces herself back to the present.  She can’t afford to start daydreaming right now.  She has to be here, she has to be sharp, and she has to keep herself on her toes. 

 _I’m doing this for Ruthenia,_ she reminds herself.  _…I’m doing this for Viktor._

“That’s great, Yulia,” Anya says warmly, smiling at Sokolova.  “I’m happy for you two!  You’re both lovely together.  I’m glad they make you laugh.”

Sokolova smiles back, her pale eyelashes fluttering as she looks demurely into her lap.  “Thank you!  They are lovely, I agree.  I’m still a little amazed that they asked to court me, but it was such a sweet way to do it, too, I can’t believe it!”

She giggles, fanning herself, and Mila makes herself smile too.  It’s odd.  Sokolova is… something of an enemy, given that her house has never really been aligned with the Nikiforovs, while the Babichevs have almost always been their allies, but here she sits, pretending that they’re friends now.  Even though Sokolova is allied with Ivanovich.

Ivanovich, who put a stranglespell on Viktor and forced him to send Yuuri away to keep him alive.  Ivanovich, who would’ve framed Yuuri for the Queen’s death to start a war.  Ivanovich, who…

Ivanovich, who Mila would gladly strangle, bludgeon with a bat, or toss into a volcano.  Maybe all three?

The point is, she hates him.  But given Sokolova’s gentle smiles and soft laughter at the talk of her new beloved, it’s hard to reconcile that hatred with all of his followers.  How much do they know about the vile man under the surface?  Are they all just as bad, deeper down?  Or are they misled, but good somewhere beneath the surface?

God, this topic is too tiring to think about during a tea party, especially a tea party where she’s supposed to be holding up a façade.  She’ll have to put it away to think about alone, in the depths of night in her bed when she’s already contemplating how much she wishes things could go back to how they used to be.  She misses the easy days at court.

“How about you, Mila?” someone asks, and Mila blinks herself back to the present (again).  “You are still courting Princess Crispino, right?”

Sara.

_Oh, Sara._

Sara is a safe (and delightful) topic.  Thinking of her brings a genuine smile to Mila’s face, and she lets it come out fully, even adding a dreamy sigh and leaning her chin on one hand.  “I sure am!”

Anya laughs, nudging her ribs with her elbow.  “You could at least _try_ to be subtle about how much more successful in love you are than me, you know,” she teases, and Mila winks unrepentantly.

“I _could,_ ” she says, “or I could tell you about how soft her hair is, how musical her laugh is, or how absolutely sweet and adorable literally everything she’s ever said to me is?  Like, oh my god, you guys, where do I even start?”

She puts her teacup down in her saucer and leans forward, searching for a quick story to tell.  If she picks a good one, it’ll seem like she’s trusting these people with something private, and that’ll make them more likely to trust her, too.  Plus, she loves talking about Sara.

Anya laughs again, shaking her head.  “You’re in deep, girl!”

Mila winks.  “You know it!”

Across the coffee table, Sokolova giggles again, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.  “I think it’s adorable,” she says, clasping her hands below her chin.  “Every time I saw pictures of you in the news, from when you went to see her last month?  They were all so _cute!_ Like that one of you both on the beach together!”

Grinning, Mila favors her with an enthusiastic nod.  “Thanks!  She’s super cute, oh my gosh.  When we were at the beach, actually—oh, man, forgive me for speaking about this so informally, I just get so excited!—but yes, we were at the beach, and I started telling her about how stressed I was because like, you know, I wanted to split with Plisetsky and stuff but my family pressure didn’t want me to and all that, blah blah,” and she waves a hand dismissively to accentuate the futility of this argument, as if her family is a pain and Yura even more so. 

(Ugh.  She misses Yura, too.  She hopes he’s doing okay.  At least he got out of here with Yuuri after that ball for Viktor’s birthday, odd and awkward as things seemed between Viktor and Yuuri.)

“Anyway,” she continues, “so I told her about how stressed I got sometimes and she started fussing?  Like, she wanted to get me to come on vacation to see her more often, gave me a shoulder rub right there on the beach, and also gave me a seashell from her collection to hold whenever I missed her.”

“That’s adorable,” Sokolova coos.  “What kind of shell?”

“Oh, um,” Mila laughs sheepishly.  “I don’t actually know the name of it?  But I have it, um—”

Hooking a finger into the collar of her dress, she pulls out the chain that the wire-wrapped shell hangs from, showing it off to the room at large.  It’s shiny, almost iridescent, and a little shorter than her thumb.  Sara helped her turn it into a pendant, the night before she left Víteliú to come home to the lion’s den.

“Oh, wow!” Sokolova gasps.  “That’s so lovely!  What a good present!”

“It makes me smile,” Mila agrees, rubbing her thumb absently over the curve of its edge.  It’s smooth and familiar to the touch; if she was alone, she’d press a kiss to it, too.  She misses Sara.

She misses a lot of people.

“Can I see?” Anya asks, leaning over, and Mila nods.  Anya takes the pendant and runs her fingers over the wire, and Mila leans a little closer so it doesn’t strain her neck.  Anya hums appreciatively.  “I think it’s abalone?  I might be wrong, though.”

“You know more than I do,” Mila laughs.  “All I’ve got is that it’s shiny.”

“Fair enough,” Anya says, releasing it.  “Still pretty!  What a nice gift.”

“Sara gives great gifts,” Mila agrees.  She strokes her fingers over the shell again, sighing wistfully, then tucks it back into her collar.  It’s private, and she always feels like it’s safer out of sight.

“She’s not the only one,” Baroness Miloslavskaya speaks up smugly, and all gazes in the room turn to her.  Mila has years of court training under her belt, and yet it _still_ takes effort not to roll her eyes.  Miloslavskaya is so insecure about her lower rank in court that she tries to lord everything she does have over people, and it’s laughable.  As if anyone here would _want_ to court Ivanovich’s nephew.  Eugh.

“Oh, really?” Anya hums, leaning back and crossing her legs.  Mila picks up her tea and takes a slow sip.  “Did Andrei get you something neat lately, Natalya?”

“You could say that,” Miloslavskaya purrs, so smug that Mila almost wants to smack her for it.  It’s so sleazy and immature, _honestly!_ “He’s so smart and so handsome at the same time.  I really don’t know how I managed to land him.”

 _You and me both,_ Mila thinks sourly.  Handsome?  No.  Smart?  Apparently not, not if his standards are low enough that he’s willing to be courted by Natalya Miloslavskaya, of all people.  Without telling her to grow the fuck up first.  Ugh.

“Don’t leave us in suspense, Natalya,” Sokolova titters.  “You can’t say something like that and _not_ show us what he got for you!”

“Oh, it’s not really a _tangible_ something, like a simple little trinket,” Miloslavskaya says coyly.  Mila resists the urge to make a snappy, defensive retort about her “simple little trinket”, fully aware that Miloslavskaya is just needling her for a response, because Miloslavskaya is petty and immature and has an inferiority complex.  She also has to resist wrinkling her nose, because there are a lot of things she doesn’t want to hear about, and Miloslavskaya’s sex life is at least two-thirds of them.

“Then?” Sokolova hums.

“He’s told me some… very interesting things,” Miloslavskaya purrs.  “About the future, about court, and even about the _king._ ”

Mila sits up a little straighter, pushing aside her distaste.  Interesting things about the king from Ivanovich’s nephew?  There’s no way that can be a coincidence.  But as someone who’s trying to distance her image from the Nikiforovs, she can’t just ask about it.  She can’t seem concerned with them, unless… unless…

“Ooh, is it good gossip?” Anya grins, face lighting up.  “Do we have some juicy dirt on good old pretty-boy King Viktor up there?  I’d _love_ to see him brought down to our level.”

Mila is careful to keep all of her bristling internal.  Viktor cultivates an image of himself as lofty, self-centered, and removed, all cold and elegant and impersonal.  Of _course_ people talk about him this way, when they don’t know him for real.  She shouldn’t be surprised.  Anya has no idea that he’s kind, goofy, and brilliant all at once.  Nobody here does.  She’s the only one with any concept of that whatsoever.

“It’s not gossip, no,” Miloslavskaya preens, shaking her head.  “But… it _would_ help you see him brought down to our level, or lower, yes.”

“You’ve got me so curious!” Anya laughs.  “What is it?”

“Well… Andrei _did_ say I shouldn’t tell too many people,” Miloslavskaya simpers, putting a hand to her cheek in thought.  “It’s still a little sensitive, and all that.  But it’ll be in court soon anyway, so you’ll know in a few days…”

“In court soon?” Sokolova echoes.  “Is there a bill that’s going to make the King… do something?  How does that work?”  She giggles again.  “Oh, Natalya, you do know how to keep your friends on their toes, don’t you?”

“I try,” Miloslavskaya says, glowing.  Mila can’t stand her.  She can’t _stand_ her, but this bill sounds important.  Sounds like something Yura and Viktor need to know about.  “There’s a bill, yes.  It’s… oh, okay, girls.  You can’t tell anyone, okay?”

She levels a look directly at Mila, who nods quickly, eyes innocent and flared wide open.  Who, her?  Tell a _soul?_ She would _never!_

That seems to satisfy Miloslavskaya, or maybe she just doesn’t actually care about keeping her secrets if spilling them can get her social credibility points in the gossip ring, because she just tosses her hair and smiles again.  “Well.  The bill is to introduce a council of lords and ladies,” she says, leaning in as if telling a secret.  “It’ll have legislative power, _including_ that of overriding the throne.  The members will be a set list, but they can vote to include or exclude people from that list, as a simple majority.  Right now, members of the initial council are still being drafted.”

…Legislative power to override the throne?

So this is the power grab that Ivanovich wants Viktor stranglespelled in order to achieve.  Damn.

A council of lords and ladies with the power to override the throne _and_ to select their own members based on internal approval, though… that just sounds like legalized corruption with no checks whatsoever.  People on the council would have to keep all of the others satisfied in order to keep their seats, which would mean that so long as the majority is fine with doing corrupt things, which she knows for a fact Ivanovich, Petrov, and several others are, they would be virtually unstoppable by the law.  They’d turn the king into a figurehead for their own selfish schemes, and nothing short of another coup would be able to stop them.

That’s …

That’s not Mila’s Ruthenia.

Viktor and Yuri need to know about this.  She has to tell them so they can be ready for whatever traps Ivanovich is going to spring on them in court.

“How are people getting chosen for the initial member list?” she asks, affecting interest.  “Is it something you just have to know the right people for?  Or is there a way to…?”

Miloslavskaya giggles again, no doubt absolutely gleeful at having three ladies who outrank her all hanging on her words.  God, Mila wants to strangle her, too, sometimes.  Not as much as she’d like to strangle Ivanovich, but she’s sure making it tempting.

“That’s something for _me_ to know, and for _you_ to find out,” she says, laughing.  It turns Mila’s stomach to do it, but she forces herself to laugh along anyway.

(Later, after tea ends, she takes a moment to press her hands to her eyes and imagine screaming for a solid minute straight.  It helps with the frustration, a little tiny bit, and she manages to keep walking down the corridors afterwards.)

Viktor is under a stranglespell.  She knows that much.  So she won’t be able to _ask_ if he knows about this already, but maybe, just maybe, if she takes a page from Yuuri’s book and just sits him down and makes him listen to her, she can get through to him?  Yuuri always did tease him about needing help to accept help.  Maybe…

A flash of silver and midnight blue catches her eye, and she blinks.  Who should it be but the King himself, strolling down the hallway towards his study?

He’s alone, too.  Relief floods through her.  It’s the perfect chance.  She can tell him everything.

She opens her mouth, about to call out to him and ask for a word alone, but her phone buzzes, and she blinks as she looks at the screen, a little smile tugging at her lips.  When she taps out her reply and looks up again, Viktor is gone.

Oh well.  Apparently she has something new to take care of, anyway.

* * *

[18:35] reminder that you’re gay:  
Hey!  Not that this is urgent or anything (pls) (it is maybe) but you should go to the place where we first met. ;)

[18:35] Mila:  
Pfft, silly.  There’s nothing romantic about the embassy!!

[18:36] reminder that you’re gay:  
Yes there is!  It’s where you came into my life ♥  
Are you going???  
Gooooooo!!!!

[18:37] Mila:  
Yes, yes!! I’m on my way right now!!!  
I could never keep my princess waiting :*

[18:37] reminder that you’re gay:  
:* :D  
Let me know when you get there~!

* * *

 

 

Sara fidgets anxiously, her hands twisting in her lap.  The poor cloth of her skirt has been wrung into knots and untied again, twisted and smoothed fretfully to ridiculous ends.  She can’t help it, though.  She’s _nervous._   After everything she learned when Prince Katsuki contacted her this morning…

Oh, Mila.  _Mila._ What has her sweetheart gotten herself into?

A blood magic scandal to replace a king with a puppet, apparently.  Just the thought of that makes Sara’s skin crawl, and she shudders and rubs her arms vigorously through her shawl.  _Eugh._ How horrifying!  A fake made by taking forcible blood drawings—Prince Katsuki glossed over that part, but she _saw_ the shadow in Viktor Nikiforov’s eyes, even through the screen.  He… he looked so different from the prince she remembers from a few months ago, the last time she saw him in person.

The _real_ him, at least.

And that’s—that’s disgusting and upsetting, too, because she danced with the false king at his birthday ball just over a week ago, and she didn’t notice a thing!  Someone who thinks it’s okay to stuff another person in a cell and take their blood by force, someone like that had his hands on her, and she’s _disgusted._

Urgh.  What a mess.  What a mess!

At least they trusted her about it, though.  Trust her enough that they told her what’s happening, between Prince Katsuki, King Nikiforov, and Prince Giacometti too.  Mila is in a dangerous situation, and apparently Sara is the only one who really has much hope of reaching her.  That means she _has_ to be on top of things, has to be in the know, has to…

_Beep!_

Oh, thank god.  Mila texted back.

She sends a quick happy face and settles back in her chair, taking a deep breath and letting it out as she smooths her skirt over her knees, again.  Everything will be fine.  Mila made it to the Vítelian embassy in Petersburg, and she’s safe for now, and she’s going to be fine.  They’ll take care of everything.  Mila’s smart and resourceful.  She won’t do anything stupid.  She knows how much she means to Sara!  She’ll be careful.

Everything will be _fine._

Within a few minutes, the screen in front of her lights up with an incoming call.  Sara brightens immediately when she presses _accept_ and Mila’s face appears, her hair tousled by the wind outside and lightly dusted with melting snowflakes.  Sara wants to kiss her. 

“Hi, sweet pea!” she beams, unable to keep relief from fluttering in her chest.  Ever since she found out what’s _really_ going on in Ruthenia, she’s been terrified for her girlfriend; it’s really, _really_ relieving to just see her, even if not in the flesh.

“Hey, you!” Mila laughs.  “What’s going on?  All your people here just directed me straight in here with no explanation.  Are we having a high security date or something?”  A sudden look of horror crosses her face.  “Oh, god, wait.  Did I forget a date?  An anniversary—no, that’s in spring, um—it’s not a birthday, uh, okay, I’m so sorry, I’m drawing a complete blank—”

“Mila, Mila,” Sara giggles, waving a hand placatingly.  “You didn’t forget anything, no, don’t worry!  It’s okay.  I just, um… I had to talk to you.  In private?  Like, super private.  But I didn’t want anyone to know about it.  I, um—I guess I mean, I _don’t_ want anyone to know, not _didn’t,_ because I still don’t want anyone to know, but that’s beside the point, um, anyway—”

“Babe,” Mila says gently.  “You’re rambling.  Are you okay?”

“You’re in danger,” Sara blurts out.  She claps her hands over her mouth, moves them to her cheeks, and blows out a very stressed breath.  “I, um.  I talked to Prince Katsuki this morning.  There’s some stuff going on in Ruthenia that’s, um, that’s…”

“Viktor’s under a stranglespell,” Mila says flatly, dropping her voice.  She glances around, but the room is empty, and Sara trusts the people at her embassy.  She told them to give Mila privacy and to ensure the call is secure, and she knows they’re loyal to her.  Smiling encouragingly at her girlfriend, she takes a moment to register the words, but when she does, she presses her lips together, smile fading.

“That’s not…” she starts, but Mila shakes her head.

“Yura told me,” she says.  One gloved hand reaches up to dust snow from her hair.  “After the ball in Elvetia.  He found out from Yuuri while they were there.  Says that’s why Viktor broke up with Yuuri in the first place, because Ivanovich wanted to frame him for murdering the Queen.  I know.  I’m being careful, honey.  You don’t have to worry.”

“No, I do,” Sara insists.  “You were right for a while, but things have _changed,_ Mila, oh—”

She breaks off, wringing her hands fretfully, then takes a deep breath and straps some steel to her spine.  She can do this.  If her role in this mess is to pass information back and forth under the table, she’ll do it, and she’ll do it _well,_ nerves be damned.

“Listen to me.”  She leans forward slightly, clasps her hands in her lap, and sighs.  “I spoke to Prince Katsuki _and_ King Nikiforov this morning.  They’re together in Elvetia.”

“What?” Mila furrows her brow.  “Bunny, I _just_ saw Viktor in the hallway, like fifteen minutes ago.  He’s not in Elvetia.”

“Yes, he is!  You didn’t see the real Viktor.”  Sara licks her lips a little nervously, sips some water, and tucks her hair behind her ears.  She wishes Mila was _here,_ with her in her castle, safe and sound and away from all of this, wishes the fingers in her hair could be Mila’s instead of her own, wishes that this entire thing could just _not_ happen. 

But that’s unrealistic and she knows it.  It’s happening, whether she likes it or not.

“What do you know about blood magic?”

“Um… It’s usually used for healing but there are cases of people doing some really fucked up stuff with it?” Mila offers, looking confused now.  “What does blood magic have to do with anything?”

“You know how Prince Altin is a well-known scholar in blood magic and he’s definitely looked at some of those messed up spells in academic contexts?”  Sara fidgets again.  This conversation is harder to have than she thought.  She’s going to have to explain the entire awful scenario to Mila, and she won’t even be able to reach over and comfort her when the horror at what’s been done to her friend strikes her.

“Yes…?”

“He explained the spell in question to me like this,” Sara begins.  “Basically, it can create a clone, or a doppelganger, based mostly on illusion.  It alters the form of the spellcaster to look like the form of the source of the blood.  It’s a very delicate spell that has been discussed in theoretical circles for a long time, but which nobody has ever really pulled off before, until… um.  Until now.”

Mila is a smart woman, and it doesn’t take long for realization to dawn in her eyes as exactly _what_ Sara is implying sinks in.  “You mean you think… Viktor was _replaced?_   Why?”

“I don’t _think_ so,” Sara says gently.  “I know so.  He told me himself this morning.”

Mila shakes her head.  She looks upset.  It hurts to see.  “I… I don’t understand.”

“Okay,” Sara breathes.  “Okay.  I’ll start from the top.  From what they told me, it happened after the stranglespell.  Apparently after King Nikiforov sent Prince Katsuki away instead of letting him be framed, Lord Ivanovich and his co-conspirators decided it would be, ah, ‘too much of a liability’ to let him keep being a figurehead king while so uncooperative, so they, um, they… used the blood magic spell to put a false king on the throne, one that would be more amenable to their demands. 

“But then Prince Plisetsky found out about it by snooping around, in his words, and with Prince Katsuki and Prince Giacometti’s help, they got King Nikiforov out of captivity during the ball for his birthday.  Um… and now they’re in Elvetia together?  But we don’t know what the goal of the fake king _was._   It never seemed like a sustainable long-term plan, so…”

She trails off and shrugs, looking down at her hands for a moment.  When she looks back up, Mila is worrisomely pale.

“Mila?”

“I… had no idea,” Mila breathes.  “So this whole time he was… it wasn’t even _Viktor?”_

Sara shakes her head sympathetically.  “No.  Apparently it’s a man named Sergei.  Prince Plisetsky never caught his family name.”

“God.  Fuck.  Sara, I almost just told him…”  Mila blows out a breath.  She leans back slowly, folds her arms across her chest, and shakes her head.  “Okay.  Damn.  Okay.  Wow.”

“Yeah,” Sara agrees with a rueful smile.  God, she just wants to hold her!  “It’s a lot.  I know.  I’m sorry to just dump it all on you like this, but you… I needed to tell you.  You’d be in danger if you didn’t know and kept trying to find out what’s going on, I think, and—”

“Oh!”  Mila sits bolt upright.  “On that note—Sara, I know what they’re doing with the fake king.  There’s a bill they’re going to introduce in court soon, I heard about it just today!  I was _wondering_ how they were planning to get it past the throne… god, this makes too much sense.  Wait.  _Wait.”_

“What’s the bill?” Sara starts to ask, but Mila shakes her head.

“Yura,” she breathes.  “Yura’s coming home soon.  Oh, _fuck._   He can’t go back to court with that bill coming through—if he’s presiding officer, he’d shut it down for sure, but if Ivanovich has a puppet on the throne, they’ll know Yura wouldn’t let their council plans pass, which means they’re going to do _something_ to him to make sure he can’t get in the way—Sara, please, you have to tell him to stay away from court!  It’s not safe!”

The distress in her voice is so urgent, so poignant, that Sara really wants to climb through the screen and just hug her for ten solid minutes, wants to rock her back and forth and assure her it’s okay, everything is going to be fine, they’re going to get out of this alive, all of them.  Yuri Plisetsky really is like a little brother to her Mila, and in moments like this, it shows.  Mila loves him so much.

“I’ll pass it on,” Sara promises, trying to make her voice as soothing as she can because that’s all she has.  Is it too soon to invite Mila back to Víteliú again?  She looks like she needs to be held.  “What’s the bill, honey?  He’ll be safer if he’s armed with all the information we can get him.”

“Right, the bill,” Mila says, running her hands through her hair.  She’s clearly frazzled and tired, slumping back in her chair with a deep sigh.  “It’s… literally just legalizing the corruption that’s already in the court, frankly.  I don’t have the details on it because Miloslavskaya is a smug little piece of _shit,_ but basically, it’s just… ugh.  It’s to create a special council of nobles that have the power to overrule the throne at their discretion, and in order to get on the council, the other members have to approve you.  It comes with a pre-decided list of the orignal council members, which means it’s gonna just be Ivanovich’s faction, for sure, and… yeah.  Ugh.  They’re gonna frame it with so much bullshit they’ll think it’s a good idea.”

Sara wrinkles her nose.  “…Wow.”

“Wow is right,” Mila mutters, venom in her voice.  “No wonder they have a puppet king.  There’s no _way_ the real Viktor would let this stupid shit pass.”

She’s clearly agitated, both worried and angry, and Sara really wants to cover her face in kisses and promise her everything will work out.  Distance is not a friend. 

“You’re right,” she says, because she can’t do that.  “I’ll pass all of that along, don’t worry.  Anyway, how are you, sweetie?  Are you staying safe?  Nobody’s trying to hurt you or anything, are they?”

Mila offers her a wan smile.  “I’m okay,” she says, her voice softer than a moment ago.  “I’m… really tired, to be honest.  I’m just pretending, day in and day out.  Even in court.  My parents don’t know what’s really going on, and I can’t explain it to them easily, not when things are so iffy and I don’t know who to trust, and it’s just… stressful.  They don’t know what I’m doing.  So they’re being like, ‘Mila, what the fuck,’ and I just have to sort of ignore it all?  And pretend I know best?  So it’s a little tense.  I don’t know.  Nothing bad, but…”

“Oh, honey,” Sara coos.  “Don’t you fret.  It’ll all blow over soon, and everything is gonna be fine in the end.  They’ll understand as soon as this is over and you’re able to tell them everything, and they won’t be mad at you for it.  They’ll be so proud, I bet!  You’re doing so much and you’re doing it so well!”

Mila smiles again, more genuinely this time.  She still looks exhausted and sad and worried, all weighed down by having to carry all of this alone.  “Thanks, Sara.”

Sara racks her brains, wondering how they might get Mila to the Vítelian embassy more often so they can just _talk_ about all this, without arousing any sort of suspicion.  She framed it as a one-time silly little romantic thing this time, offering up that excuse should anyone ask why Mila was here, but they can’t use that again next time.

“You’re welcome,” she says, a little belatedly, but Mila smiles at her just as warmly as ever.  “I mean every word of it, too!  I’m really, really proud of you.  And maybe a little worried, but also proud.  Really proud.  You’re doing so well, Mila, really, you are!  You’re so strong and you’re handling so much, gosh, and I just really want to hug you for it!”

“I wish you could,” Mila admits, her smile fading a little.  “I’m so tired.  I miss you.  I just—I want to sleep for a week and stop worrying about whether every little word I say is the wrong one, or whatever else.  I… want to see you.  I wanna cuddle and I wanna just be _us_ for a little while.  I miss you a lot.”  Her hand jumps to her necklace, stroking the seashell that Sara gave her, and Sara feels her heart twist a little in her chest.

“Oh, my Mila,” she croons.  “I miss you, too.  We’ll get together soon, okay?  Just a little longer, and we’ll have a solid plan to deal with all of this, and then you and I can do fun things together and relax for a while.  Okay?”

Mila flickers a soft smile at her.  “Okay.  Can we go to the beach again?  I like the beach.”

“We can _definitely_ go to the beach again!”  Sara nods enthusiastically, clasping her hands together again.  “We can take walks together, sunbathe, and collect more seashells to keep.  Maybe it’ll get warm enough that we can play in the water soon, too!”

“That sounds really nice,” Mila says wistfully.  “I can’t wait.”

“Me neither,” Sara sighs.  “Do you have anywhere else you need to be soon?”

Mila shakes her head.

“Do you?”

“No,” Sara says.  “My evening is all yours, baby.  I was thinking maybe we could just sit together and talk?  Doesn’t have to be about politics if you don’t want to talk about that more, but we can definitely discuss it if you’d like.  Anything you want.  I’m all yours!”

Mila smiles.  “All mine?” she repeats, stroking the edge of the seashell again.  “I like the sound of that.”

Sara giggles.  “Me too.”

 

* * *

It’s [cold](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E2ddL30h7hg).

Not that Yuri has to be bothered by this, because fire runs under his skin and he doesn’t need more than a light sweater even in the early-morning chill, but his breath still mists in the air in front of him.  Meanwhile, Katsudon is wrapped in several layers as well as Viktor’s arm, which might as well be glued to his side.  Fucking ridiculous, those two.  They look worried, and he scowls darkly at both of them.

(God help him, he doesn’t want to leave them.)

“What’s with the faces?”

“Yura,” Katsudon starts, all fussy and stupid, and Yuri glares at him.  “Are you _sure_ you’re going to be okay?”

Seriously?  He asks that now, when they’re at the skyport and Yuri’s about to leave?  Ugh.  Stupid stupid _stupid_ Katsudon. 

“It’s kinda late to be asking that, isn’t it?”  Yuri scoffs, crossing his arms, and glares at his feet.  He doesn’t want to go back to the palace where he and Beka could have died.  He doesn’t want to go back to that fucking room and know that he’s going to be alone, soon enough, as soon as the fucking tournament passes and Beka goes home.

Katsudon winces.  “I mean… maybe,” he says, and his voice softens until Yuri has to strain over the wind to hear it.  “But… I don’t know.  If… I’m sure we could find a way to keep you here a little longer… maybe if—oh, I know!  We could say you caught a cold and you’re staying back to rest, or maybe we could say, um, we could—”

“Love,” Viktor cuts in gently.  Katsudon falls silent, knowing his attempts are futile, and hangs his head.

“I… I know.  Sorry.”

“It’s alright.”  Viktor kisses his temple, then lets go of him to step forward and pull Yuri into his arms. 

Yuri freezes, irritation warring with vulnerability, and finally clutches him back, swallowing hard.  _God,_ he doesn’t want to go.  But Katsudon’s ideas are little more than grasping at straws, and all of them know it.  He has to go.  Especially after he keeps saying he’s grown enough to handle himself.  He’s such a fucking idiot!  Why couldn’t he just admit he doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing?  Now it’s too late for that, so he _has_ to go back and act like he knows anyway!

“Take care of yourself, Yura,” Viktor says seriously, drawing back to clasp Yuri’s shoulders and look him in the eyes.  “Be _careful._ Don’t underestimate anyone, keep your guard up, and remember what we discussed with Princess Crispino yesterday.  They’ll have some kind of plan to keep you out of the way when they try to pass that bill.  Don’t let them touch you.  And—”

“Yes, _Mom,_ ” Yuri snipes.  “I’ll even wear a coat when I go outside, and I’ll make sure I put a hat on if my hair is wet.  Are you happy now?”

“Yura,” Viktor starts, then sighs.  He rakes a hand through his hair, and for a moment he just looks _tired._ It’s scary enough that the helplessness and anger fuelling Yuri’s foul mood vanish for a few solid seconds—Viktor isn’t supposed to be tired or weak or uncertain.  He’s supposed to just be _Viktor._ Strong and sure and steadfast and confident and sharp. 

Except… he hasn’t been, lately.

Or rather, he has, but he’s been more than that, too, and for the first time in his life, Yuri has started seeing his low points and his vulnerabilities, the ones that he spent years carefully hiding away from everyone and nursing all alone except with his damn dog, and… and…

On the one hand, it feels good that Viktor is finally letting his walls down around Yuri.  It makes him feel like his cousin finally trusts him properly, wants to let him in, wants to repair everything together.  But on the other, it reminds him of Viktor’s delirious, nightmare-ridden sleep on the way from Petersburg to here, while Rani healed him and Giacometti purged him of the spell and Katsudon soothed away the fears in his dreams.  Seeing Viktor ( _Viktor,_ of all people) like that was… jarring.

“Sorry,” Yuri mutters, looking away.  Viktor seems to understand everything he won’t (can’t) say, squeezing his shoulder and pulling him close again.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs.  “I just worry for you.  I don’t want them to hurt you, Yura.”

 _Like they hurt me._   It goes unsaid, but Yuri hears it anyway.

Cheek squished against Viktor’s shoulder, Yuri catches a glimpse of Katsudon, talking to Beka.  He can’t see Katsudon’s face, and Beka looks stoic as usual, but somehow it fills him with a wistfulness so intense it hurts, deep in his chest.  Viktor’s hand cradles the back of his head, tender and gentle as if he knows, and suddenly Yuri wants to let himself be weak and cry, wants all the comfort his cousin can offer on their parting. 

God, why is he so sad?  This is only for a little while!  He’s going to see Viktor and Katsudon both again soon enough!

“Shh,” Viktor croons.  “I’ve got you.”

This is too much.

Yuri pushes him away and furiously blinks back tears, shaking his head.  “You _don’t!”_ he hisses.  “You don’t have me!  I’m _leaving_ and you’re staying here and there’s nothing either of us can do about it!  So shut up and stop sugarcoating everything!  I’m not a fucking baby!  Get your stupid head out of your ass and figure that out already!  God, I hate both of you!”

Viktor steps back and stares at him, eyes wide and stricken. 

Fuck.  _Fuck._ He just wants to cry, god, why is today happening—no, no, no!  He hates this, he hates Viktor and Katsudon and Elvetia and everyone, all of this fucking _horseshit_ needs to get away from him!  God!  They should just leave him alone and not—and not be like this—

Before remorse for his outburst can sweep him into apologizing, Yuri whirls about and storms away, all but sprinting past Katsudon to the sky-carriage ramp.  He hears Katsudon cry out his name, but he ignores him, going to the coziest armchair in the cabin and curling up, arms over his face.  Beka’s gonna come in and sit there, silent but judgmental.  He knows it.

What he’s not expecting is to feel a little probing thought, a nudge in his mind, and then a burst of warmth and a little sadness.  It’s Katsudon, in his head, because Katsudon apparently has to have the last word, and—

Except he can’t quite bring himself to be angry, not when Katsudon is just trying to send him a little bit of love before he’s gone, and even the thought of using the mental block that Katsudon himself taught him in order to shut him out feels wrong.

Ugh.

Footsteps echo up into the cabin a few minutes later, and through his hair, Yuri sees Beka enter.  He pauses to glance over the access panel that controls the spells that power the sky-carriage, but Yuri already set all of them properly, so there’s nothing for him to fix, and he just takes a seat, stoic and silent.  Fuck everything.

“…They’re still there, if you want to say a proper goodbye.”

Oh, so he isn’t silent, huh?  Yuri whips his head up to fire a glare at his dipshit best friend.  “I already said my goodbyes.  Fuck off.”

“Alright.”  Beka looks irritatingly unperturbed as he leans back in his seat and pulls out a book.  Yuri throws himself to his feet, stomps over to the control panel, and activates the take-off spell.  The cabin door seals itself.

He lingers by the window, drawn by a sense of regret and sorrow that makes itself more known now that he’s more alone than he was a few minutes ago, and peers out to the skyport deck, a lump in his throat.  Viktor and Katsudon are still there, but…

Viktor’s head is bowed, buried in Katsudon’s shoulder, and Katsudon is rubbing his back, his other hand on the back of Viktor’s neck.  He looks up at the sky-carriage, watching it lift into the air, but Viktor doesn’t move.  Viktor is—is he _crying?_

Fuck. 

A hot tear slips down Yuri’s cheek before he can stop it, and he has to stifle a gasp, because Beka can’t catch him crying, not for this.  This is so fucking stupid, they’re going to see each other again soon anyway, so long as this stupid plan works out and Yuri doesn’t get himself fucking killed in stupid fucking court, and there’s no reason for him to be crying, and…

Viktor and Katsudon grow smaller and smaller as the sky-carriage rises.  Yuri watches them until they fade out of sight.

Wrenching himself away, he scrubs at his face and stalks back to his seat.  He even manages to sit in silence for almost a full minute before Beka, stupid nosy caring Beka, speaks up.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Yuri snaps.  “Fuck you.  Read your book.”

Beka looks unconvinced.  “I don’t want to read and ignore you being upset.”

“I said I’m _fine._ ”  Yuri digs his fingers into the upholstered armrests until his knuckles turn white, helplessly caught somewhere between anger and helplessness.  “Shut up.  Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

Beka hesitates for a moment, then sighs.  “Okay.  You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to.”

Why is he so calm?  Why is he so fucking calm about fucking everything and why can’t he fucking be angry and upset and hurt too like Yuri is so that at least he’s not the only one being a fucking idiot and crying over leaving those two fucking morons for all of two fucking weeks?  Why is Yuri the only one fucking up like this?  Why is Beka even—why is—

“Why are you even _here?”_ he explodes, slamming his feet down into the floor.  “This is all about Ruthenia being a fucking mess, and you have nothing to do with it!  Why the fuck have you not just gone _home_ already?  Why don’t you just leave?!  This has nothing to fucking do with you!  Just get out of here and go be safe in Qazrazi, you stupid piece of shit, I hate y—I hate all of this and I don’t—you—j-just go away!  Stop being with—with me when all I do is fuck everything—oh, _fuck,_ I, god!”

He breaks off when he realizes he’s crying again, but louder this time, his eyes all puffy and messy and his throat clogged and fucked up.  He hates crying, he’s just a stupid little moron who isn’t as grown-up as he likes to pretend he is, and—and…

Arms wrap around his shoulders and pull him into a hug, and he swears.

“Beka, you fucking idiot,” he sobs, clutching tight fistfuls of the back of Beka’s jacket.  “ _Fuck_ you, go home already, y-you idiot…”

Beka pats his back. “No.”

“What do you _mean,_ no?”  Yuri looks up at him through furious, bleary eyes.  “It’s n-not even your _problem!”_

“You always did say I have too broad of a loyal streak,” Beka shrugs, as if that’s all that matters.  He sits down next to Yuri, squeezing in on the armchair, and Yuri sniffles loudly, scrubbing at his face all over again, before he lets himself relax a little bit and lean into Beka’s side.  Beka sighs.  “…Do you really want me to go?”

“No,” Yuri blurts out.  “Fuck.  No.”

“Then I’ll stay.”

“ _Why?”_

Another sigh, and now Yuri feels bad for yelling at him.  He’s always just trying to help.  What the fuck is his problem that he yells at fucking _Beka_ of all people?  God.  God!  He’s so sick of himself today.  When will he just grow the fuck up and act like the person he keeps telling everyone he is?

“Honestly?” Beka asks.  He tips his head back in the chair, closing his eyes, and Yuri studies him, really studies him, from the proud sharpness of his jaw to the furrow in his brows and all the tension in the thin set of his lips.  “I’m staying because I feel like it’s the right thing to do.”

Yuri stares at him some more.  “The right thing to do?”

“Yeah.”  Beka opens his eyes and quirks his lips up just a little, a humorless smile if Yuri’s sever seen one.  “Call that my idealistic side if you want.  There’s political advantages for the Altins in ensuring that your house stays on the throne in Ruthenia, but if you want my real answer, that’s not what’s making me want to stay and help you fix this.  I just… feel like it would be wrong of me not to.  Especially because you’re involved, Yura.  I can’t walk away from a friend in need.”

God, he’s such an idealist.  Why is he such a damn good person?  Yuri wants to be a person that good, but he’s just stupid and confused and doesn’t know who the fuck he actually is.  He just wants this whole fucking pile of shit to blow over already.  Life was better when he didn’t have to be a crown prince. 

“You have to go home soon anyway,” he mutters, instead of saying any of that.  “So that’s a moot point, stupid.”

“I do have to go home after the tournament,” Beka agrees mildly, “but you know the plan takes place then, too.”

“I know,” Yuri admits.  “I just… don’t know what… never mind.  Ugh.  Ignore me.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing either, Yura,” Beka says softly, and Yuri stills at his side.

“You?” he scoffs.  “You’re like… on top of fucking everything.”

Beka chuckles drily.  “The fact that you think that just means I’m doing a good job of pretending I am,” he says.  “But the truth is, I don’t actually know.  I’m playing this by ear just as much as you are.  So is King Nikiforov.  So is Prince Katsuki.  None of this is some pre-ordained story that just falls into place, Yura, there’s so many variables and so many things that could change every day.  We’re all just doing our best and trying to make it work.”

“Everyone seems like they know what they’re doing,” Yuri protests, crossing his arms.  “Katsudon and Viktor sit down with Giacometti and Princess Crispino and just talk shit at each other and somehow come up with actual plans.  All I manage to do is stick my nose in places.  I found Viktor, but I didn’t have any idea what to fucking _do_ with him.”

“That’s okay, Yura,” Beka tries.  “That’s what I’m saying.  None of us know everything.  We wouldn’t have found him without you, but you couldn’t have gotten him out without the rest of our group.  We all just build on each other’s strengths, you see.”

“ _Don’t_ turn my mopey-ass existential crisis into a teamwork pep talk,” Yuri says acerbically, prodding him in the chest.  His voice is still all clogged up and messy from crying, and his throat is still tight, but a threat is a threat.  “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Beka laughs.  “I won’t,” he promises.  “All I’m saying is that it’s okay to lean on others.  The truth about growing up, I think, is that none of us really know what we’re doing.  We all just pretend we do.”

“When the fuck did you get so wise?” Yuri asks, giving him an incredulous look.  “You could be a goddamn village elder in a kids’ TV show.  Or like that dude with the tea from that one cartoon.”

Beka snorts.  “You drink more tea than I do.”

“Yeah, well, that’s Katsudon’s fault,” Yuri mutters, rolling his eyes and ignoring the warmth rising to his cheeks.  Fuck, he misses Viktor and Katsudon already.  Why did he have to leave like that?  Yelling and bullshit.  Ugh.  What’s wrong with him?

“I’m sure he’ll be flattered to hear that, whenever you tell him,” Beka says.  Yuri smacks him lightly, just to get his point across, and sighs.

“I can’t wait until this is over,” he admits softly, fishing his phone out.

“I know,” Beka says.  He pats Yuri’s head a little like Viktor did a few minutes ago, and Yuri bites his lip with a pang.  “Don’t worry.  It’ll be over soon enough.”

“I hope so,” Yuri sighs, and turns to look out the window again.

* * *

 

[07:49] Yuri Plisetsky:  
sorry i yelled at you and viktor  
i don’t actually hate u

[07:55] Katsudon:  
we know <3  
but thank you for saying it c:  
vitya sends his love

[07:56] Yuri Plisetsky:  
…yeah ok  
tell him hes a fucking sap

[07:57] Katsudon:  
i told him u love him too!! :D

[07:57] Yuri Plisetsky:  
that’s not what i said

[07:58] Katsudon:  
isn’t it???

* * *

[07:59] Unknown number:  
pls. you DEFFO said you lov him too lol

[08:00] Yuri Plisetsky:  
who the fuck

[08:00] Unknown number:  
wanna see a pic of the world’s cutest elephant?

[08:01]:  
oh. you. ugh.  
cats r better

[08:01] stabby dude:  
>:O!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

* * *

 

The clash of blades rings out over the courtyard, metal flashing in the winter sun.  Viktor grits his teeth and holds his ground, refusing to be driven backwards—his technique is still there, but his strength is lacking, his body’s weakness still clutching at him with grasping fingers—as Chris rains blow after blow down on his practice sword.

He spots an opening and lunges, driving forward, and Chris has to dance back a few steps to avoid his blade.  Viktor grins triumphantly, then licks his lips, tasting his own sweat as Chris retaliates.  He sidesteps, then feints to the left and strikes again, and Chris parries, letting out a bark of laughter.

“You’re not so shabby today!”

Viktor snorts.  “Speak for yourself!”  

He twirls his wrist, forcing Chris’s blade to glance to the side, and stabs forward again, forcing him back.  Chris parries again, catching Viktor’s sword with a loud _clang_ that rings out like a bell, sending jarring vibrations all the way down his arm to his shoulder.

Chris mirrors the wrist twirl, and Viktor has to duck a blow that might have clipped his shoulder.  He uses the momentum of his sudden drop to throw in a jab at Chris’s waist, and Chris barely catches him in time, looking very pleased with himself.  Viktor withdraws and holds his blade across his body in a guard position, breathing hard.

He’s too weak to bear down on the swords like he might usually, letting the weight of his blade lend itself to the power behind his movements, so all he has going for him right now is speed.  Which is fine, given that he usually prefers rapiers, but it does get a little bit frustrating that it’s his _only_ option. 

Chris knows this, standing opposite Viktor like a mirror, and they walk in circles around each other for a few seconds.  Then he holds up a hand and drops the stance, wiping his brow.

“What do you say?” he asks.  “Shall we call it a day on sparring?”

Viktor considers his aching body.  He wants to push himself back to his full strength, but he knows it takes time; he’s healed from the effects of the drugs, but the consequences of lying in a cot in a cell for a few weeks with barely any movement still linger, despite Rani’s efforts.  She’s nice enough, but Viktor just can’t bring himself to let anyone practice blood magic on him too much.  He…

“Yes,” he says, before he lets himself board any of those trains of thought.  “I think so.”

“Good,” Chris says, nodding.  He holds out a hand.  “I’ll put your sword away, then.”

Viktor hands it over and stifles a sigh.  It’s for the best; it won’t do him any good if he wears himself out so much that he can’t spar tomorrow, after all.  He’s getting there.  He just has to be patient with himself.  That’s what Yuuri keeps saying, and he knows it’s true—he just wishes it would happen _faster_.

Speaking of Yuuri, he’s been sitting on the side of the courtyard, bundled up in a heat-charmed cloak and watching them spar.  He and Phichit did their own sparring earlier, and Viktor watched between rounds with Chris, thinking longingly of pushing Yuuri against a wall and kissing him senseless.  In fact, he thought about this longingly enough that Yuuri looked over at him once, wide-eyed and blushing, and hid his face in his hands when Viktor winked at him.

God, he loves this man.

He trots over to the steps where the two of them sit now, plopping down and immediately lying across Yuuri’s lap.  “Hi.”

Yuuri pets his cheek.  “Hi, you.”

“You’re looking better,” Phichit comments.  “Feeling better, too?”

Viktor nods, closing his eyes as Yuuri strokes his cheekbone.  His face is all gross and sweaty and the winter air is cooling it rapidly, but it feels good.  The cold is his friend.  He’s missed feeling it under the surface of his skin, little flurries of snowflakes swirling through his blood and his soul.  He never realized just how much of a part of him it was until it was taken from him.

“Are you falling asleep on me?”  Yuuri chuckles fondly, and a little warm touch brushes through Viktor’s mind, like golden flowers and soft kisses.  He _loves_ it when Yuuri does that, and he knows by the way Yuuri’s finger is tracing his lips now that he smiled on instinct.

“No, just resting,” he hums.  “You’re a good pillow.”

Yuuri laughs.  “Thank you.”

Damn, Viktor wants a shower now, if only so that he won’t feel too disgusting to wrap himself around Yuuri and cover him in kisses.  Both of them need to bathe, actually; Yuuri and Phichit have been waiting for him and Chris to finish before going back inside, but now that they’re done, the four of them are probably going to settle down with some tea and snacks for a little while, after cleaning up.

“You two are cute as hell,” Phichit comments wryly.  Viktor opens his eyes and gives him a bright smile.

“Thank you!” he says.  “I would say ‘I try’, but really, Yuuri is just very easy to love.”

Yuuri turns pink again.  Viktor laughs and reaches up to ruffle his hair fondly.

“I’ll dab to that,” Phichit says, and then does, smacking Yuuri in the head in the process.  By his unrepentant grin and Yuuri’s long-suffering sigh, Viktor can gather that this is by no means the first time this has happened.

Sure enough, Yuuri sighs again.  “ _Must_ you?”

A solemn look passes over Phichit’s face as he nods sagely.  “I must.”

“No, you don’t,” Yuuri huffs.  His cheeks are puffed out and pink, both from Viktor’s compliments and the cold, and there are bits of snow in his messy hair.  He’s wearing his contacts for sparring, and he’s absolutely _adorable,_ so much so that Viktor sits up, suddenly needing to hug him.  Yuuri only looks surprised for an instant before he gets squished close, and Viktor squeezes him tight.

“You’re so _cute,_ ” he sighs, his hands finding their way into the oddly-warm fabric of the cloak, and Yuuri splutters.

“What—that doesn’t even make _sense!_ He hits me in the head and you say I’m cute?  How does that work?”

“You’re always cute,” Viktor corrects, withdrawing just enough to smile at him.  He lifts a finger, taps Yuuri’s nose, and cups his chin playfully.  “Sometimes you pout and you look adorable and I think about it more than usual.  …But then, sometimes you pout and I only really notice your mouth and then I think about other things, like how much—”

“ _Vitya!”_

Phichit cackles.  “What other things?” he asks slyly.  “I got some of the gossip out of Yuuri, but you gotta fill in the gaps for me.  Is it like, you two—”

_“Phichit!”_

Yuuri looks back and forth between the two of them helplessly, then throws up his hands.  Viktor and Phichit grin at each other across him, suddenly feeling what surely must be a bond of kindred spirits.

“I should have _never_ let you two meet,” Yuuri groans, burying his face in his hands.

Phichit hugs him like Viktor did a moment ago, gleeful and tight.  “Aw, Yuuri!  You know you love us!”

“I _do,_ but that doesn’t mean this was a good idea…”

Footsteps make all three of them look up as Chris returns from the practice armory, smiling.  “Hello again, you lot,” he greets, strolling over.  “Good sparring, everyone!  Shall we reconvene in half an hour for tea and snacks?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Phichit agrees, offering a thumbs-up.  He flows to his feet more so than just “standing up”, and Viktor blows out a sigh before letting go of Yuuri to get up himself.  Yuuri beats him to it, hopping to his feet, and then holds out a hand to Viktor, beaming.

_Adorable._

Viktor takes his hand, gets up, and then kisses Yuuri’s knuckles.  He lingers on each one, and Yuuri smiles at him with so much warmth in his gaze that Viktor almost forgets every ice spell he’s ever cast, and then they both realize more or less at the same time that Phichit and Chris have already gone inside and left them.

“Typical,” Yuuri mutters, shaking his head, and Viktor just laughs.  He squeezes Yuuri’s hand as they walk back indoors, too, and doesn’t let go all the way back to their chambers.

When they get there, Yuuri frowns at the bathroom, then looks up at Viktor.

“Do you want the first shower?  Or if you want to sit down and rest a little longer, I can take it,” he says, uncertain and starting to fret a little.  Viktor swallows a sigh.  He appreciates the fretting, he really does—it’s because Yuuri loves him and cares for him, he knows this—but it always leaves him feeling a little stifled, like he has to put himself on a pedestal because he’s made of glass. 

He’s not made of glass, or ice, for that matter.  He doesn’t break that easily.

“It doesn’t matter to me,” he answers, more or less honestly, because if it means Yuuri doesn’t feel like he has to coddle him, he’d prefer to go first, but he also doesn’t want to make Yuuri wait for ages.  And he knows he likes long showers. 

“Um…”

Yuuri wavers for a moment, and Viktor sees a chance to get around this decision. 

He seizes it.  “Or we could… both?”

Yuuri blinks.  It takes a moment for what Viktor means to register with him, but when it does, color immediately blooms in his cheeks—maybe he still doesn’t feel ready for that kind of intimacy, maybe Viktor shouldn’t have said that yet, maybe…

He suddenly feels ridiculous and desperate, clingy beyond measure because he’s been hurt to hell and back until he was left with just himself and the knowledge that he loves Yuuri, loves Yuuri with his whole, entire heart.  He’s ready to give everything he is to their relationship, to the two of them, but… maybe Yuuri isn’t, yet.  Maybe Yuuri is still testing the waters of the two of them; after all, they grew close and loved each other over a year, sure, but they only really romantically started being together recently, and…

“Um,” Yuuri squeaks again.  Viktor opens his mouth to backtrack, but then Yuuri hugs him suddenly, face smushed into his shoulder.  “Okay.”

“You’re… sure?”  Viktor wraps his arms around him too, pats his back softly, but then withdraws to look at him, brows furrowed.  “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“No, it’s—you just surprised me, that’s all!”  Yuuri pecks the tip of his nose, smiling now, and Viktor can’t help but smile back.  “I would be fine with that, Vitya.  It’s not too different from you hauling me into your bath, after all.”

Viktor has to laugh at that, and Yuuri beams up at him.  “Well, alright.  If you’re sure you’re comfortable with it.”

Yuuri hums, looping an arm around his waist as they start to walk to the bathroom together.  “I’m pretty comfortable with sharing baths?” he offers.  “The hot springs in Hasetsu are like that.  I have one in my suite, I mean, but there are general palace ones, and some in town, whatever.  That isn’t really a problem.”

Sensing some unsaid words, Viktor bumps his hip.  “So…?”

Yuuri ducks his head.  “Well… usually when people talk about showering together they mean, um… sex?”

Viktor blinks at him, waiting.  Does he think Viktor would just… assume what he wants? 

He does get caught up in his own mind sometimes, and Viktor knows that.  So maybe it’s … not unreasonable to think maybe he _did_ think that.  It’s not that he really thinks it of him, but he gets irrationally afraid.  They’ve discussed this, lifetimes ago when their own minds and insecurities were the worst enemies they had to face. 

Yuuri looks up at him through his lashes, a little shy like he hasn’t been in a while.  “I… don’t think I’m comfortable with _that_ yet,” he finally admits, pink-cheeked.  “But a shower that’s, um, just a shower?  That’s fine?”

“Okay,” Viktor says, because that _is_ fine, that’s more than fine, that’s perfectly wonderful because all he really wants right now is to be clean and to hold Yuuri close, and showering together is a good way to achieve both of those things.  Yuuri means more to him than the abstract concept of shower sex, by far—even the idea of comparing them is laughable. 

Yuuri blinks.  “Okay?”

Viktor blinks back at him, a little confused.  “Yes?”

“That’s it?” Yuuri asks.  He blinks again, then laughs ruefully.  “Okay.  I guess I thought that would be harder to say than it ended up being.  Overthinking, as usual.  Ignore me.”

“I would never ignore you,” Viktor says honestly, kissing his forehead.  “Is that something you’ve been thinking about a lot?  About us?”

Yuuri shrugs, taking one of Viktor’s hands in both of his own and playing with his fingers.  “Not really a lot,” he says, shaking his head.  “It’s more like I’ve thought about it once or twice but mostly just forgot about it because I like being with you and that’s about all I need?”

Warmth blooms in Viktor’s chest, and a smile blossoms across his face in answer.  “I’m glad you feel that way, because I feel much the same, actually.”

This conversation reminds him of another one, ages ago, or a few months back, when he and Yuuri were up late one night, just talking to each other, about anything and everything. 

(He still remembers those days with fondness, how they would sit around in their sleeping clothes and sometimes hold hands while sitting on the sofa, watching animal videos or discussing books or talking politics or just being together.  He was pining incredibly desperately in those days, wasn’t he?)

They talked about love, that particular night.  Viktor still remembers the way his heart fluttered in his chest as he told the man he fell in love with what he wanted in life, what his loneliness made him crave, what he hoped to someday have.  He remembers hearing Yuuri’s replies, hearing what Yuuri wanted in a partner, and thinking, _I could be that person._

Now, he tips Yuuri’s chin up, leaning down until his forehead presses against his darling’s.  Yuuri looks up at him with adoration in his eyes, and Viktor kisses him.  His lips are soft and a little salty, and he’s pliant to the touch, melting in Viktor’s arms with a little contented _mmm_ that leaves Viktor smiling against his mouth.  He loves kissing his Yuuri.

When he pulls away, Yuuri smiles back.  “Mm,” he sighs, letting his eyes flutter closed again.  “That’s nice.  I like your kisses.”

“I’m glad,” Viktor smiles.  “I like yours, too.  So, just to clarify—kisses are good, showering together is fine, but you don’t want to have sex?”

“I, um, yeah.”  Yuuri ducks his head, flushing again.  “For now at least?  I mean—okay, I’ve never really—this is gonna sound ridiculous, I know, but like… I mean… I’m curious and I do wanna try it sometime, but it’s like there’s so much we’re already dealing with and I’d rather be not stressed so we can, I don’t know… take… our time and… oh my god what am I _saying._ ”

He stops talking and hides his face in his hands, ears red, and Viktor feels his heart melt a little more.  He takes Yuuri’s hands and gently pries them away, stroking his thumbs over Yuuri’s knuckles.  “There’s no need to be ashamed, darling,” he coos.  “That isn’t stupid.  That makes sense.  There’s nothing wrong with not wanting it right now, or even later, if you still don’t.”

Yuuri peeps up at him through his lashes again, face still red.  “I mean… I just feel so silly saying that out loud, when it shouldn’t really be that big of a deal anyway because it’s just _us_ , and…”

Viktor pecks his forehead again.  “It’s not silly if it matters to you,” he assures.   The way Yuuri keeps referring to them as _us_ makes him stupidly happy—maybe it’s just some kind of reassurance that he’s not the only one still thinking of the two of them as a unit, the two of them together, even though they aren’t engaged anymore—and he can’t keep himself from grinning a big, goofy grin at the thought.  “Besides… if I can be honest?”

“Of course,” Yuuri says immediately, looking up at him with wide eyes.  Viktor wants to kiss him again, but refrains because they’re supposed to be having a conversation and not a make-out session.

“I actually like what comes after sex more than sex itself, I think.”  He shrugs.  “Not that I’ve had a ton of it either, but from the few times I have—I told you about that, I think, right?”

Yuuri nods.  “You… said there weren’t really emotions involved, though, so I never really knew… did it mean much to you?”

Viktor shrugs again.  It strikes him as a little bit funny that they’ve just stopped in the middle of the bathroom to have this conversation, holding each other and standing next to the shower stall without getting into it, and amusement tugs the corners of his mouth upwards.  “I mean, we just fooled around out of curiosity and for fun, really,” he says.  Neither he nor Chris ever attached any strings to those nights, just letting them fill the time and having fun without romance.  “So in a sense, it was a way to spend quality time with a friend.  But in another sense, no, it didn’t mean much to me, and I wasn’t particularly upset when Matthieu started courting him, or when they broke it off.”

“Oh,” Yuuri says, his eyes contemplative and dark.  Viktor lets go of his hands to rest his own on Yuuri’s hips, drawing him a little closer, and Yuuri leans up to kiss him this time, sweet and insistent.  He pulls back after a moment, resting a hand on Viktor’s chest.  “What do you mean by ‘what comes after’ it?”

Viktor laughs.  “What you already give me, actually,” he answers honestly.  “Cuddling.  Waking up together.  Someone holding me and playing with my hair while I’m sleepy and telling me I’m pretty.  Until you, I thought the only way I could have that would be by having sex with people.  But as always, you surprised me in a good way, my love.”

Yuuri’s eyes widen in understanding, and then he kisses him again, tugging him down and and pressing his lips to his firmly, and now it’s Viktor’s turn to melt into him.  Yuuri nuzzles his face when he breaks the kiss, then reaches up to pet his hair.  “You’re _very_ pretty,” he says, smiling, and Viktor swears he could melt into a puddle on the spot.

“Let’s go get clean,” he says quickly.  “I want to cuddle without feeling _gross._ ”

“And those two will be waiting on us, right,” Yuuri remembers.  He sighs, then lets go of Viktor with reluctance to turn the shower on.  Trusting him to find the right temperature, Viktor hauls his shirt over his head and makes short work of his clothes, then hops in.  Yuuri follows a moment later, a little more hesitantly, face pink again.

Viktor cups his cheek.  “It’s just me,” he reminds him, and that seems to do the trick.  Yuuri nods against his hand, then looks up, smiling.

“My Vitya,” he says.  Viktor goes a little weak in the knees.

“Yes,” he agrees, giggling helplessly as Yuuri mirrors his position, cupping his face too.  “All yours.”

“You better not hog the hot water,” Yuuri teases gently.  “Just because you’re taller doesn’t mean you can take all of it.”

Viktor looks at the water droplets on his arms and then back at Yuuri.  He winks, effortlessly turning them all to ice crystals.  “What about cold water?”

Yuuri shrieks when Viktor tries to hug him with his icy arms, pulling away and nearly slipping on the tile.  He catches himself before Viktor even has time to panic, grabbing the knob next to him and turning it to the _hot_ side.  “Don’t you _dare_ bring that in here or I’ll never shower with you again, you _icicle!”_

“I’m your icicle, at least?” Viktor offers, grinning, but he lets the ice melt away as hot water flows soothingly over his body.  “Your very own, very loving icicle?”

This time, when he reaches for Yuuri, Yuuri lets him, although he still scrunches up his face adorably to let him know that the ice was not appreciated.  “You’re ridiculous.”

“Oh no,” Viktor laments, folding his arms about Yuuri’s waist.  “Am I on thin ice?”

Yuuri sighs very deeply.

“No, even with a pun that bad,” he says, placing a hand on his chest.  “You could never be.  I love you too much, even when you freeze me in the shower and then laugh at me for it…”

Viktor nuzzles his nose, overcome with fondness.  “I love you too,” he croons, letting his voice drop to something low and husky and affectionate.  Yuuri kisses him again, relaxed and slow, but pulls back far sooner than Viktor would like. 

He reaches for the shampoo, then looks up.  “Hey, loving icicle.  Can I wash your hair?”

“If I can wash yours,” Viktor answers, blissful, because surely he _must_ be in heaven, and Yuuri nods, smiling.

Eventually, they get out of the shower and get dressed.  Viktor is toweling his hair when a glint of light catches his eye, and he turns to look at Yuuri, a question on his lips.  When he sees the answer, it dies in his throat.

There, on a chain that Yuuri is fastening around his neck, is a golden ring.  An achingly familiar golden ring, one that Viktor has pressed his lips to before, one whose counterpart he sorely misses having on his finger.  He took it off the day Yuuri left, kept it in a drawer in his study with one of his favorite photographs, took it out to hold all afternoon until he tried to make himself stay busy.  Until he was attacked. 

A wave of emotion rises up, sudden and cloying in his throat.  He wants his ring back.

But he can’t find the words to express any of that turmoil and loss and confusion, so he just turns away and hangs up his towel, pulling a sweater over his head, and stares pointedly at the ground.  It’s fine.  It doesn’t matter.  There’s nothing to be done.

Yuuri, sweet darling Yuuri, notices something is off, of course.  He always does.  He comes over, touches Viktor’s shoulder, lingers.  “Are you okay, Vitya?”

And there it is—the soft concern, the hesitant worry.  He doesn’t want to just start crying again, doesn’t want to be so _weak_ all the time, but here he is, just… just…

“I’m fine,” he says, a little brusquely.  To counter that, he makes himself smile, putting on what he sorely hopes is a convincing show, and takes Yuuri’s hand to lead him to the door.  “Let’s go.  We shouldn’t keep Chris and Phichit waiting.”

“If you say so,” Yuuri says doubtfully, but he doesn’t push, for which Viktor is grateful.  Maybe he’ll want to talk about that later.  Maybe he won’t.  Right now, he just wants to rest and relax in the company of people he trusts. 

God, he wishes Yuri was still here, too; he’s worried about his little cousin, alone in Ruthenia’s court.  That bill makes his blood boil.  _He’s_ supposed to be the one dealing with things like that, not little Yura—oh, god, he needs to get back to Ruthenia.  The day of the tournament can’t come soon enough.  This needs to end.

His mood, unfortunately, has soured, and even tea and snacks with Chris and Phichit don’t manage to pick it back up completely.  It doesn’t help that he can see the three of them giving each other the occasional concerned look when they think he can’t see, as if he wouldn’t notice it.  What is he, a broken little doll that needs constant monitoring? 

Eventually, he grows so irritated—whether with the concept of being coddled or just with himself in general, he couldn’t say—that he puts his saucer down with a little more force than necessary and snaps, “Can you three _stop_ that?”

Phichit looks confused, Chris looks guilty, and Yuuri looks shocked.  Immediately, Viktor feels bad for being brusque with them when they’re only trying to help, but he’s still annoyed and he feels stifled and overall, he hates it.

“Stop what?” Yuuri asks gently, too gently, as he places a hand on his knee.  Viktor can’t bring himself to brush it off, but he does blow out an irritable sigh.

“Acting like I’m just going to break if you—if you speak too loudly or let the wind blow too strongly or something.”  He folds his arms across his chest and maybe pouts a little, disgruntled.  “I’m not made of glass and I’m not _broken._   Just because shit happened doesn’t mean you have to be like _that_ about it.  Can’t you all just treat me normally?”

Well.  Perhaps that doesn’t apply to Phichit.  Viktor doesn’t know him well enough for them to _have_ a normal.  And he’s someone who has worked in a field that certainly involves exposure to traumatic situations.  Perhaps he deserves more credit than Viktor is giving him.  Perhaps Viktor doesn’t particularly care right now.

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri bursts out, hanging his head.  He retracts his hand as though burned, hunching in on himself, and immediately Viktor wants to smack himself.  He didn’t mean to make Yuuri feel bad; he just wanted them to stop being so delicate with him!  “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad, Vitya, I’m so sorry!”

Chris, meanwhile, shifts in his chair, also guilty and uncomfortable.  “I’m sorry, too,” he says after a moment.  “I guess it is pretty ridiculous on our parts, sparring with you all morning and then worrying all afternooon, isn’t it?”

“Quite,” Viktor agrees, maybe a little acerbically.  He reaches over and takes Yuuri’s hand, smoothing his thumb over his love’s knuckles with a sigh.  “I’m not angry, sunshine.  Just… a little frustrated.  I know you mean well.  You’ve been taking care of me, and doing such a wonderful job of it too—I really do appreciate it, I do.”

Yuuri takes a breath.  “I know,” he says after a moment, squeezing Viktor’s hand.  “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Viktor says.  “It’s alright.  Just please don’t do that in the future?  I just want you to treat me like you normally do.  I… I don’t want to…” 

He struggles to find the words for a moment.  Why does it bother him so much that they worry like this all the time?  It’s a mark that they care, isn’t it?  When he first woke up in Elvetia he craved that care and attention, soaked it up like a parched sponge.  But now, a week or so later, he feels stifled.  Why?

Perhaps it’s because he hates feeling helpless.  He _was_ helpless, for a little while, but he wants to get back on his feet now.  He needs to be strong again, and he _wants_ to be strong again.  He doesn’t want to feel bound to being a shivering, sobbing wreck, trembling in Yuuri’s arms and begging him not to leave.  He wants to be himself again.  He wants… he wants…

Finally, the words come.  “I don’t want to be defined by my low points.”

“You’re not.”  Chris leans forward slightly.  “I am sorry if we’ve made you feel like you are.  You know you’re more than what you’ve been through, don’t you?”

“So much more,” Yuuri echoes, voice soft.  Viktor squeezes his hand.

“I know,” he says.  “I think.”

“We’ll make sure to remind you more often, then,” Phichit says.  He’s smiling, but there’s a solemn look in his eyes, one that all but confirms Viktor’s suspicion that he knows his way around tricky situations like this.  He shifts in his seat, tucks his legs under himself, and taps a finger to his chin.  “You know… I once had a friend come back from a job gone wrong, at the guild.  They said the same things like what you’re feeling now, about wanting to be better already and not wanting people to be so concerned, all of that.  So if it makes you feel any better to know… it’s normal to be frustrated.”

Viktor blinks.  “Thank you.”  He’s a little surprised by the story—not so much by its content, but by the fact that Phichit chose to share it with him, when they’re not close at all, not really.  He’s still a little taken aback by their first-name basis with each other.  It makes _sense,_ given that he’s sure Yuuri has talked about him, especially during their time of separation, but it’s still odd.

Phichit grins.  “They also sliced a table in half because they were upset enough they forgot not to use a spell, so by that standard, I’d say you’re doing pretty good.”

A startled laugh bubbles out of Viktor’s throat at the thought.  “Well!  When you put it that way, all things considered, I suppose I am.”

“I’d prefer my furniture to remain unsliced, please,” Chris drawls, back to light teasing, just like usual, and something in Viktor’s chest shifts and settles.  It feels good.  These people around him are here to stay, and they aren’t going to leave him just because he’s unhappy.  Of _course_ they’re not, not after everything they risked to save him.  If he tells them something is wrong, they’ll try to fix it, because that’s who they are.

Just like that, his foul mood lightens, dissipating into the air like the steam from their teacups.  He feels like he can breathe again, and he does, relaxing before he fires a wink at Chris.  “No promises!”

Yuuri presses against his side, and a little tinge of affection brushes his mind.  He hums, gently bumping his head against Yuuri’s in acknowledgment, and picks up his tea again.

Suddenly Phichit laughs across the coffee table, waving a hand at Yuuri.  “You’re welcome, Yuuri, you goof, though I don’t know why you’re sitting there thinking grateful thoughts at me.  ‘Course I’d say something helpful.  It’s like, my _thing._ ”

“Saying helpful stuff is your thing?” Chris asks, amused.  “And here I thought it was assassin work.”

“A guy can multitask,” Phichit retorts sagely, reclining across the armchair like it’s a lover’s lap.  He leans on one armrest, tosses his legs over the other, and munches on a chocolate-covered strawberry, swinging one of his feet.  “I’m good at lots of things.”

“Oh, really?”  Chris grins wickedly.  “What sorts of things?”

“Are you two seriously still at the flirting stage?” Viktor cuts in, attempting to sound flat but mostly just swallowing amusement.

“Shut it, Mister _‘oh my god Chris he kissed my nose I can die happy now’_ Nikiforov,” Chris fires back immediately, complete with a terrible impression of Viktor himself.  “How long did it take you two to get together?  Almost a full year, yes?  Why, yes, I can check, actually, because I got updates on almost every single cute thing Yuuri ever did, far before he finally kissed you.  I don’t think you have any room to talk.”

“ _Updates?”_   Yuuri squeaks, his cheeks turning pink.  “Vitya!”

“I am shameless with regards to my love for you.”  Viktor shrugs, smiling down at him, and Yuuri giggles, that adorable little giggle that always makes his heart flutter (honestly, he feels like if in fifty years they’ve ended up married and old together, that giggle will _still_ do things to his chest).  Yuuri deserves all the love Viktor has for him and then some.  He thanked Phichit, empathically, for making Viktor laugh?  God, he has so much love in his heart.

Yuuri interrupts his thoughts with a peck to his cheek.  “I know.”

“Stupidly cute,” Phichit stage-whispers to Chris.

“I like how you didn’t deny we’re flirting,” Chris whispers back.

“Why would I deny the truth?”

“Touché.”

“Now who’s being cute?” Yuuri asks, eyebrows raised.  Viktor, who is very much enjoying the company of his friends but also wants to carry Yuuri off and cover every inch of his beautiful face in butterfly kisses until Yuuri’s lovely laughter rings out in the room, feels torn.  Does he tell Yuuri he’s cute or does he join him in teasing Chris and Phichit?

It strikes him that this is the best problem he’s had to deal with in a long time.

He settles back in the cushions and feels a genuine, content smile tugging at his lips.  He feels… happy.  Has he felt this happy since Mama died?  He doesn’t think so.  For a moment, grief pangs through him again, just like it does every time he thinks of her, but he manages to swallow and overcome it, focusing on the contentment he feels in this moment.  In this moment, he is happy.

It’s what she would want for him.

“Vitya?” Yuuri asks, drawing him back to the conversation, which he belatedly realizes he must have missed a chunk of, because all three of them are looking at him expectantly.  “Are you okay?”

It’s not the soft, hushed, concerned _oh no, are you alright,_ that stifles him and makes him feel like a broken puppet.  It’s said with a little smile, a gentle tilt to the head, and a touch of fondness.

Viktor smiles back.  “Yeah,” he says, interlacing his fingers with Yuuri’s.  “I am.”

* * *

That evening, Viktor finds himself snuggled up with Yuuri again, sitting on their bed this time.  They’re not under the blankets yet—it’s not quite time to sleep, so they’re just petting Makkachin and holding each other while not-really-watching a movie on Yuuri’s laptop.  Makkachin is a drowsy lump, his tail brushing Viktor’s leg, and Yuuri is as delightful to hold as ever.

Why, then, does he have to feel so sad?

His hand wanders up Yuuri’s side to his shoulder and then his cheek.  “I wish you didn’t have to go.”

Yuuri’s hand covers his.  “I know.  I wish I didn’t have to go, either.”

They stay like that for a moment, until Viktor scoots over and wraps his arm around Yuuri’s waist, tugging him closer.  Makkachin whuffs when Yuuri’s knee brushes his side, but other than that doesn’t complain, lying between them like a fluffy pillow.  Viktor smiles softly, but he’s still _sad,_ aching deep inside, and he knows Yuuri can feel it.

“It’s not fair,” he says.  “I only just got you back, and you have to leave soon.”

“We still have a few days,” Yuuri points out, leaning in to kiss his forehead.  “I’m not leaving quite yet…”

“But in a few days you’ll be gone,” Viktor says mournfully, “and I’ll have to leave, too, after that, and I’ll be all alone again.  I don’t want to be alone again, Yuuri…”

“You won’t be,” Yuuri immediately promises, something fierce shining behind his warm, brown eyes.  “You won’t be alone ever again if you don’t want it.  I won’t be here, but you’ll be with Chris, and after you leave Elvetia you’ll be with Duke Plisetsky.  You won’t be alone, Vitya.  You won’t.”

“I want you,” Viktor says, plaintive and sad.  Yuuri presses a soft, gentle kiss to his lips, more a touch of skin to skin than anything else, and tucks his hair behind his ear.  His fingers are a little cool, and their ghosts on Viktor’s skin force him to suppress a shiver.  “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you, too.”  Yuuri strokes his cheek again, kisses his nose, and presses their foreheads together.  “It’s only for a few days.  Yura’s going to invite me to Ruthenia for the tournament after I give my speech, you know it’ll be over just like that.  Time will fly by.”

“No, it won’t.”  Viktor sighs.  Maybe he’s being melodramatic, but he doesn’t _want_ Yuuri to leave.  He understands that he has to, that the cover excuse of a ski trip can’t really be dragged out much longer, that Yuuri has to go back to Hinomoto, but he wants to hold on tighter, doesn’t want to let go.  He wants them both to stay here, together, safe in this little bubble away from the ugly politics of Ruthenia’s court, away from the awful people who did them wrong before.  He doesn’t want to let those men near his Yuuri ever again.

And he’s going back to Ruthenia.

That thought, surprisingly, isn’t one that bothers him.  He’s going back to Ruthenia, he knows what he’s dealing with this time, and they owe him a crown and an apology.  He’s going to take those two things, from their cold, dead hands if he needs to, and he’s going to fix his country before they run it into the ground for the sake of power-mongering and money.

He’s afraid, but he feels, in his bones, that he can do it.  They hurt him horribly in the past, yes, but they have not stripped him of his ability to rule, to fight, to love.  They haven’t broken him.  He’s still here, and he’s still fighting, and they can go to hell.

That being said, he still doesn’t want to let go of Yuuri.  It just feels like—it feels like when Yuuri leaves, their carefully-crafted plans will stop being in the future and will start being in the _now,_ and he doesn’t completely feel ready for everything to happen just yet.  Can’t he have a little bit more time to recuperate, to get back to being himself, and to be with those he loves?

Of course, that would be a luxury not even a king can afford.  But he can dream.

Yuuri hums softly, then pulls him a little closer, kissing his nose again.  “We’ll be okay, Vitya.  I’ll be with you again soon.”

“I know,” Viktor sighs.  “I know.  I just… it’s all so soon; I don’t want you to go, I want you to stay here longer…”

This is ridiculous.  Earlier today he was thinking the day of the tournament couldn’t come soon enough, that he would gladly go storm the palace himself right then and there, that he was ready.  But now that night has fallen, he feels soft and scared and vulnerable all over again.  Is he really ready?  Where did his confidence go?  It’s like he knows that some version of himself is tall, strong, proud, and unbreakable, knows that that Viktor Nikiforov can storm Petersburg Palace and fix everything, but he doesn’t know if he’s _that_ Viktor.

It scares him, the idea that he’s not the version of himself he’s supposed to be.  What if everyone else sees through him, too?  Would they want to leave him?  Would Yuuri—

“I love you,” Yuuri offers a little anxiously, managing to assuage Viktor’s depressed, sorry thoughts for the moment.  “I’m sorry.  I—I can’t fix this.  I’m sorry, Vitya, I know you’re hurting, I love you so much, I just, I don’t know what else to say…”

“I love you, too,” Viktor murmurs, immediately giving him a squeeze.  He sounds so distraught!  “It’s okay.  You don’t have to make me stop being sad about this.  I just wanted to tell you I’m sad.  That’s all.”

“I know,” Yuuri mumbles.  He tips his face up a little, asking for a kiss, and Viktor leans in and presses his lips to his for several seconds, slow and relaxed and sweet.  When he pulls back, Yuuri gives him a watery little smile.  “To be honest, I don’t want to leave either.  I don’t want to leave you!”

“It’ll only be for a few days,” Viktor murmurs, feeling incredibly silly now that he’s parroting the same things Yuuri just told him even while he still doesn’t quite believe them himself.  “It’ll be alright.  I’ll be fine.  You don’t need to worry about me, my darling, I’ll be alright.  I might not like it, but I’ll… I’ll survive.  And it’ll make it that much sweeter when I do get to see you again, won’t it?”

Yuuri laughs breathily.  “Yeah, I guess so.”

Viktor kisses him again.  They spend a few minutes like that, curled around Makkachin’s snoozing form and kissing slowly, soft and unhurried, until Yuuri lets out a deep sigh and touches his cheek.

“Vitya,” he says.  “Let’s do something fun.”

“Something fun?” Viktor echoes, raising an eyebrow. 

Yuuri blushes.  “I mean—okay, yes, kissing you is fun, but we’re not actually watching this, are we?”  He gestures to the screen, which if Viktor is being honest, he completely forgot has been playing a movie this entire time.  He supposes that just proves Yuuri’s point.

“No, we’re not.”  He props himself up on one elbow and reaches over to caress Yuuri’s cheek and jaw, stroking the pad of his thumb over those soft, pink lips.  “Did you have something else in mind, my sunshine?”

Yuuri pecks his thumb and looks over at him with a warm smile.  “You know, I missed hearing you call me things like that.  I always liked how your voice gets all… I don’t know, soft?  Fuzzy?  It’s cute.”

Flattered, Viktor can only just say the first thing that comes out of his mouth, which is, “ _You’re_ cute.”

Yuuri laughs.  Then he sits up, eyes shining like they always do when he’s thought of something, and reaches over Makkachin for the laptop.  Makkachin stirs, wriggles in place a bit, and snuggles back down, unperturbed.  Yuuri turns the movie off, smiling the most beautiful smile in the world, and switches to some soft [music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KfJ229KizSs) that reminds Viktor of slow rumbas in ballrooms and of how beautiful Yuuri is when he dances. 

Then he turns back to Viktor, who realizes he’s just been caught staring.  He offers a not-really-sheepish grin and winks.  “Have I ever told you you’re beautiful?”

Yuuri ducks his head, laughing.  “Please,” he says.  “Have you seen yourself?”

“I have, actually,” Viktor retorts, “and I don’t hold a candle to _you,_ dear heart.  You’re absolutely perfect.”

“Vitya,” Yuuri laughs again, shy but clearly pleased.  He grabs Viktor’s hand and nuzzles his fingers before pressing it to his cheek, then hums.  “Dance with me?”

Viktor blinks.  There’s some room by the bed, he supposes, but… “Here?  Now?”

Yuuri nods earnestly.

Well, it _has_ been ages since they danced together.  Viktor pushes himself into a sitting position and then off the bed, standing and stretching, and Yuuri excitedly follows suit, coming around to take his hands.  “You lead?”

“Sure,” Viktor murmurs, though he’s not sure he’ll be a great lead while Yuuri is being so distractingly beautiful and kissable and sweet, and right in front of him, too. 

They move a few steps away from the bed, while Makkachin takes advantage of all the room they’ve left behind, and Yuuri places his hand on Viktor’s shoulder.  Viktor wraps his hand around his shoulderblade and draws him close, enjoying the feeling of their bodies pressed together as they start to sway in time to the music, in place at first before they transition into a simple closed basic.

“Keeping it easy?” Yuuri teases gently, leaning in close enough that he could kiss Viktor’s cheek if he turned his head.  When he does, Viktor has to stifle a gasp of delight.

“Can you blame me if I just like holding you close?”

As he says it, though, he presses Yuuri to the side, just slightly, and leads him through a spiral turn into fan position, their hands still clasped together.  Yuuri closes his feet, switches his weight through his hips, and sashays back into closed position, while Viktor tries valiantly not to melt into a puddle on the spot.

“I’ve missed dancing with you,” Yuuri says, joy written in every line of his body and enchantment dancing in his eyes.  He laughs happily as Viktor twirls him into a rope spin, swaying his hips while Yuuri walks around behind him, and then tugs him close into a set of cucarachas just to hold him again.  “Oh my god, I have _missed_ this.”

“Me too,” Viktor admits.  He leans in, steals a quick kiss on his check step, and beams when his darling mirrors the move on his own.  “Yuuri…”

He wants this in the future, god he wants this, he wants this so bad it _hurts_ deep in his chest.  But they’re not engaged anymore, and everything is so incredibly uncertain he doesn’t know what to think, what to feel.  He wants to ask, has been wanting to ask for days, but he’s been holding back, afraid.  It’s only now that Yuuri’s departure is looming, imminent, that he’s even allowing himself to think about what might become of them in the days to come.

“Wait,” Yuuri says, slowing them back to just hip-sways.  He loops one arm around Viktor’s neck, the other pressing a finger to Viktor’s lips.  “I have a question for you, first.”

“Alright,” Viktor murmurs, wrapping both of his arms around Yuuri’s waist. 

Yuuri boops his nose playfully, lets that arm join the first around Viktor’s neck, and smiles.  “Your Majesty,” he begins, and Viktor wrinkles his nose.  Yuuri laughs but continues.  “Your Majesty, I know circumstances are a little unorthodox right now, but all the same, you mean a lot to me.”

“You mean a lot to me, too,” Viktor starts, confused as to where he’s going with this, but Yuuri touches his lips to hush him, and he quiets.

“And in a similar vein,” Yuuri continues, smiling just so, “I would be utterly delighted if you say yes to me now.  So, Viktor Nikiforov, would you allow me to court you?  Officially?”

Viktor stares at him, wide-eyed, for a moment that hangs in the air like a shimmering, crystal-clear sunbeam, or a snowflake caught in the stillness between flurries.  His heart soars.

“Oh, god, yes,” he breathes, his vision blurring a little as tears prick at his eyes.  Things are still uncertain, but they have a commitment between them now, and they’re—Yuuri wants to stay with him, he’s said it out loud and he wants it, and they’re going to be together, and they’re _committed to it now—_

Yuuri kisses him, a quick little peck that leaves him wanting more, and caresses his cheeks for a moment.  Viktor melts into his touch, closing his eyes, and Yuuri chuckles warmly as he strokes his thumbs over Viktor’s cheekbones, all the way up to the corners of his eyes and back down to brush over his lips.  He is in love, he is in love, he is in love, god help him, he is completely and utterly in love with this man…

Then Yuuri’s hands withdraw, and Viktor opens his eyes.  Yuuri is fiddling with something at the back of his own neck, and it only takes a moment for Viktor to realize what it is.  His eyes widen.

There, glimmering in the low light as Yuuri unclasps it from his own neck, is the chain with Yuuri’s engagement ring.  The breath catches in Viktor’s throat as the lamplight glints off the warm gold.

“Here.”  Yuuri’s voice is a low murmur as he reaches up again, his arms slipping around Viktor’s neck, and clasps it.  The metal is still warm against Viktor’s skin.

Emotion swells in his chest and creeps up his throat.  He swallows hard.  “Yuuri…”

“So you don’t worry,” Yuuri explains, brushing a hand over the ring as it sits on Viktor’s chest.  Viktor reaches up to catch that hand and brings it to his lips, kissing each knuckle slowly as Yuuri continues.  “About whether I still want you, or if I’ll stop wanting you when I go back to Hinomoto.  I know it’s… not an engagement, because I technically can’t give you that yet, but, um… it’s a promise.”

Kissing his hand isn’t enough.  Viktor blinks back tears of emotion, touches the ring, then cups Yuuri’s cheeks and brings their foreheads together.  “Oh, _darling_ …”

Yuuri squeezes him tightly, arms snug around his waist.  “I love you.”

Makkachin huffs in disapproval when their combined weight falling back onto the mattress jolts him awake, but Viktor is too busy with the general process of tackle-kissing his beloved breathless to care.

 

* * *

Yuri Plisetsky, Crown Prince and Heir to the Throne of Ruthenia, is going to light this entire fucking room on fire.

Well, okay.  He isn’t gonna do that literally, but fuck if he doesn’t want to, because they never stop fucking talking and spewing bullshit and holy fuck how the hell did Viktor do this every day without murdering each and every stupid courtier who opened their ugly mouth?  He swears, if Petrov smiles that stupid sleazy smile at him one more time he _is_ going to become both the match and the spark—

“I thank the Throne for your time, and I give the rest of mine to the chair.”

The stupid statement draws him back into reality, and he has to remember not to scowl as he nods his acknowledgment of Petrov’s cession.  He has to be cool and imperious.  That’s the deal here.  Right?  Cool, imperious, untouchable, bullshit, whatever.  That was how Viktor always did it.

The thought of Viktor makes him cast a quick, baleful glance at the Throne itself, where “King Nikiforov” sits. 

It’s funny. 

He looks exactly like Viktor, identical in every way, but now that he’s looking for it, Yuri can tell that Sergei feels off.  Maybe the throne is too imposing for him; he certainly isn’t as at home in it as Viktor himself would be.  Definitely not as comfortable in it as Aunt Vasilisa was.  She looked like an extension of the damn thing, sitting there and oozing power.  Viktor used to sprawl comfortably in his seat at her side, exuding confidence and strength.  Sergei is clearly attempting to emulate that sprawl, but his body is a little more closed off, a little less confident, and now that he’s looking for it, Yuri can _see it._

Maybe he knows that the game is up, and as soon as the tournament arrives, he’s fucked.

The thought brings him a little glee, and he manages to return his attention to the speech floor, now that Petrov has finished talking.  There is time for other speakers to present cases for or against the bill he just announced—the Council of Nobility, the one Mila warned them about.  He can see her sitting in this room, too, whispering to Lady Anya Ryabova. 

“I will now open the floor for one rebuttal before court adjourns for lunch break,” he forces himself to say, attempting to channel Aunt Vasilisa’s firmness and strength.  He knows he can’t do Viktor’s stupid lofty elegance—that’s just not _him,_ and fuck him but he’s spent long enough trying to be Viktor and failing, dammit.  He’s _done_ living in Viktor’s shadow.

However, he’s come to realize that not wanting to live in Viktor’s shadow and resenting Viktor himself are… two separate things.  He kind of hates that it took all… _this_ , just to make him figure that out.

The magical response-lights in the courtroom flicker to life with gentle glows, so at odds to the sharpness of the shit going down in today’s session, and with a sinking feeling in his stomach, Yuri realizes that Mila’s was the first to light up.

“Lady Babicheva, I grant you four minutes to make your case.  You have the floor.”

A hushed whisper goes through the crowd as Mila stands, eyes full of a firm and determined light.  Anya looks taken aback, next to her with raised brows, and Yuri sees Ivanovich give her a calculating look across the room.  _Not good._

“I thank the chair for this time,” Mila says, inclining her head.  “And I thank you for presenting the bill, Lord Petrov.  To be clear, I do not stand in opposition of this bill in principle!  Not at all.  I think the concepts that Lord Petrov outlined when introducing it are noble and well-intended, and furthermore that the creation of a council of nobility to ensure more equitable implementation of legislation in court sessions is a worthy goal!  I would be delighted to work with him to reach a solution with this bill.”

Oh, that’s an interesting way to start an opposition speech.  Yuri considers her, careful to keep his expression neutral, and only flicks his gaze to Otabek, sitting alone in the section for visiting dignitaries to observe court, once.  Beka’s face is stony and expressionless.  Yuri will have to ask him what he thinks later, but he himself has a suspicion that he knows what Mila’s doing here—she’s trying to buy time.

“However, I feel that the bill as it stands is not fit to be passed yet!” Mila continues.  She glances down at the notes in her hands, tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, and takes another breath.  “In its current state, the theoretical council, once created, would not have a clear enough mechanism of including and excluding potential new members, or of removing or reinstating old ones.  Members of this court, I ask you—is it fair that only one House should get to write the rules for allowing members to acquire power on this level?”

_Daaamn._

She’s buying time _and_ trying to sow dissent, all while continuing to make herself look like a potential supporter of the bill and enemy of the crown so that she can potentially continue to get insider information.  If he wasn’t so busy trying to pretend he’s Aunt Vasilisa, Yuri would be impressed as _fuck._

Then again, Aunt Vasilisa might have been impressed as fuck by this too, though she probably would have expressed it in different words.  Whatever.  His point is, this is some next-level bullshit, and if it works, the hag is gonna have his respect for the rest of her life, and it won’t even be grudging.

(Not that he’ll tell her that or anything, but.  The point still stands, okay.)

He tunes back in quickly, internally smacking himself for zoning out for even a few seconds.  Whatever Mila says here is probably gonna be crucial in some way, and he might need to relay it to Katsudon and Viktor, after this. 

At least that’s one thing he’s no longer scared of—Ivanovich can’t touch him anymore.  He can talk to Katsudon because Ivanovich knows Katsudon already knows everything, and the jig is fucking up.

“—propose an amendment, later in today’s session or perhaps in tomorrow’s,” Mila is saying, glancing down at her notes again as she wraps up her four minutes.  “Again, I think this bill is certainly an excellent plan, but as it is, it does not meet the qualifications it should to pass.  Should it be amended to better reflect the status of court at large, I would happily give it my vote, and should no one else come forth with such an amendment, I would happily write one myself.”

She bows to Sergei and to Yuri, then clears her throat.

“I thank you for your time, once again, and I yield the floor.”

“Thank you, Lady Babicheva,” Yuri says as calmly as he can, imagining Aunt Vasilisa’s deadpan stare and the sharpness of her gaze.  She was an imposing pillar where Viktor was a cold wind, and he doesn’t know how to be cutting and biting like the storm but he knows how to stand his damn ground, and he _can do this._   “It is now time for this session to adjourn for a break.”

 _Rap-rap._ The gavel in his hand is so small, yet so loud, so heavy.  He still remembers wincing the first time he had to tap it to the wood.

“Adjourned.”

He stands to walk to Beka as low murmurs of chatter start to fill the room, mind whirling.  Today’s chamber was closed, meaning that media was not allowed to record proceedings, and that means that Viktor and Katsudon won’t have seen the speeches or the precise wording of the bill.  Yuri needs to get that to them soon, if he can, just because he feels like they need all the information they can get in order to pull off their plan properly, but—

“Prince Plisetsky,” a voice interrupts, and he stops, pressing his lips together in his best attempt to avoid a full-on scowl.  “Might we speak privately for a moment?”

_Sergei._

Yuri wants to bare his teeth and hiss, but they’re still surrounded by mingling courtiers as they leave the room, and he _can’t._ He’s already been distant enough that there is talk of a rift growing between him and Viktor.  Funny, that that’s what Ivanovich and his cronies have been trying to get to happen for all Yuri’s life, and now that they’ve finally gotten rid of Viktor himself, Yuri pulls back.

“Sure,” he says, instead of any of that.

He catches Beka’s eye as he leaves the room, following Sergei at a brisk pace.  Beka looks concerned for a moment, his jaw tightening, but Yuri doesn’t even have the time to mouth _don’t be stupid_ at him before he’s out the door and walking down the hall, heading for the King’s … oh, okay, not the King’s study again.

Instead, they head for the residential wing, finally winding up in the King’s quarters, where Sergei wordlessly gestures at a chair.  Yuri, just because he can, sits on its armrest and folds his arms, staring flatly at his cousin’s impersonator.

“The hell do you want?”

Sergei stands by the couch on the other side of the coffee table, arms folded.  He has Viktor’s face twisted into a scowl, but as Yuri watches, there’s a shimmer of magic that blurs his features until they resettle into … distinctly unfamiliar ones.  The real Sergei is pale, with sunken grey eyes and chin-length dishwater-brown hair.  He’s a little shorter than Viktor too, and as he stares at him, Yuri promptly feels hatred rise in his gut.

“Your friend,” Sergei says.  Yuri immediately detests the sound of his voice even more than the grating of nails on chalkboard.  “Prince Altin.  He needs to go home, before the tournament.”

Yuri draws back, eyebrows raised.  He had this same conversation with Beka on the flight back here, and Beka is _staying, motherfucker._   “Yeah, I don’t fucking think so.”

Frustration creeps into Sergei’s face.  Yuri wants to laugh at him.  God, he feels so different than he did the last time he confronted this awful excuse for a human being—he knows, he knows Katsudon and Viktor and Giacometti and Chulanont all have his back, he _knows_ he’s on the winning side now, and he knows they can’t touch him.  Not without giving Katsudon even more evidence to rip them apart.  He knows it, they know it, and he knows that they know.

It feels good.

Or not, for Sergei. “What makes you think you have a choice in the matter?”

Yuri _does_ laugh, bitter and amused and sharp like a sour cherry.  “What are you going to blackmail me with this time, ugly?  My life?  His?  You know the second you lay a finger on us, Prince Katsuki is going to blow this whole thing wide open and you’ll have given him the proof.  You can’t fucking touch me.  You’re the one who’s in no position to make demands.”

Sergei sputters and actually kicks the side of the couch in his anger, so suddenly that Yuri leaps to his feet, fire already swirling at his fingertips.  But Sergei doesn’t try to attack him.

Because he knows he’s right.  Ha.

“I’m leaving now,” Yuri announces, done with this farce of a meeting.  “You’re not going to stop me, because you can’t.  Prince Altin is staying until the tournament, as planned, and you can’t do anything about it.  You’re stupid, you’re losing, and you’re ugly.  Bye.”

When he slams the door behind himself, it’s all he can do not to laugh.

 

* * *

The [night](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hOcryGEw1NY) before Yuuri has to leave, Viktor sleeps fitfully.  Every time he wakes, he finds himself reaching for Yuuri again, pulling him closer before relaxing and falling asleep, until the cycle starts again and he jolts awake without knowing why.  He’s not having nightmares, or at least if he is he doesn’t remember them at all when he wakes up, but he just can’t seem to stay asleep.  He has a feeling it’s going to render him utterly exhausted tomorrow.

Yuuri snuffles softly in his sleep next to him, snuggling into his chest as Viktor wraps his arm around his waist and draws him in gently, and Viktor sighs to himself.  There’s precisely one time he’s woken up tonight that he knows the reason for—Makkachin licked the sole of his foot and it was wet and slimy and _tickled_ and in his half-asleep state, he almost screamed _—_ but past that, he has no idea why he’s awake.  He just wants to rest.  He’s so tired.

Closing his eyes again, he focuses on keeping his breaths slow and steady, concentrating on the feeling of Yuuri’s body pressed against his.  They’re warm and heavy, snuggled together under the blankets, and he can feel every inch of Yuuri’s body tangled with his.  Yuuri is a beautiful mixture of lean, hard muscle and gentle softness, especially around his belly, and Viktor can never get enough of holding him close, not when it’s so comforting to be pressed against him like this.

God, he’s going to miss this tomorrow.

No.  No, that’s a thought he can deal with tomorrow, when it comes.  Right now, he has Yuuri right here in his arms, head tucked under his chin and occasionally mumbling in his sleep, and he’s _fine._ There’s no point in making himself sad prematurely.

“I’m going to miss you, sweetheart,” he whispers into Yuuri’s hair, kissing the crown of his head.  “I know it won’t be for long, but I still don’t want to let you go again.”

Perhaps it’s irrational of him, but the last time they parted didn’t exactly end well for him, so he supposes he can be excused for not wanting to have to say goodbye to his Yuuri again.  He just needs to remember that this isn’t forever; it’s for about two weeks, actually, and then they’ll be together again, and he won’t have to fuss.

He sighs, presses his lips to Yuuri’s hair, and runs his fingers in tiny circles on Yuuri’s shoulderblade.  “I can’t wait to see you again.”

The constant, gentle beating of Yuuri’s heart eventually guides him back to sleep.

When he wakes again, for the fourth time tonight that he can remember, his first urge is to be exasperated as _hell_.  Can’t he just sleep so he won’t be tired tomorrow and can be properly awake to send Yuuri off?

But the second urge kicks the first one out the door quite solidly, stemming from the realization that he’s not the only one awake this time.  Yuuri has rolled away, his back to Viktor, but the soft blue light from his phone that illuminates the curve of his neck and shoulder gives him away.

Viktor scoots over until his chest is pressed to Yuuri’s back, wraps his arm around his waist, hooks his foot around one of Yuuri’s ankles, and sleepily kisses the back of his darling’s neck.

Yuuri leans back into him, twisting around to look at him.  The reflection of his phone makes his eyes even darker in the stillness.  “Did I wake you?  Sorry.  I can put this away…”

His voice is hushed, soft and husky from sleep.  Viktor nuzzles his cheek affectionately, and Yuuri sighs, lying on his back now.  He leaves his phone aside to lift one hand to caress Viktor’s face, and Viktor smiles at him as the light dims and turns off.

“You didn’t.  I’m not very good at sleeping tonight.  Why are you awake?”

“Oh…”  Yuuri sighs again.  “Bad dream, that’s all.  Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Viktor assures.  He wraps his arm more tightly around Yuuri’s waist, caresses Yuuri’s calf with his foot, and nuzzles his temple.  Yuuri huffs out a soft laugh.  “If you had a nightmare, you should have woken me.”

“You need your rest,” Yuuri mumbles.  “Besides, it wasn’t a big deal.  It happens sometimes.”

His hand slides up from Yuuri’s waist over his chest to his face, his fingers brushing over the scar on Yuuri’s cheek.  When the breath catches in Yuuri’s throat, he knows he’s struck a nerve.

“Was it like the nightmares you used to have?” he asks softly, cupping Yuuri’s cheek now.  “After you were attacked?”

Yuuri is silent for a long moment.  “Kind of,” he says stiffly, and stops, and Viktor is prepared to drop it if he doesn’t want to talk about it, but then he rolls over on his side so he’s facing him and asks quietly, “Were you ever mad at me for not realizing the fake was a fake from the start?”

Viktor blinks, taken aback.  It’s enough to make him wake up a little more, furrowing his brow, and then he shakes his head.

“I never even thought about it,” he says, slow and contemplative.  “Being mad, I mean.  I was just so happy you were alive.  And that I was—you know, not, ah, not stuck in that cell anymore.  Being mad didn’t even—it never occurred to me, if I’m being honest.”

Yuuri lets out a slow breath.  It’s dark enough that Viktor can’t quite read his face, and for a terrifying moment he’s left wondering if he said the wrong thing, but then Yuuri lunges forward and wraps his arm around his waist and buries his face in his chest.

“I was just—”

He breaks off, voice muffled, then turns his head to lay his cheek against Viktor’s chest.  Viktor wonders if he’s listening to his heartbeat as he starts stroking his fingers through Yuuri’s hair, trying to be soothing and gentle and soft.  Yuuri holds him a little tighter.

“I don’t like the idea of you not being mad simply because you were too relieved that you weren’t being tortured anymore,” Yuuri admits.  His voice is very soft, very vulnerable, and very sad.  Viktor flinches at the word _tortured_.  “Would you have been otherwise?  If there was a fake of you and I didn’t realize it?”

“It was a very convincing fake,” Viktor murmurs, a little guiltily because his mind is whirling and he knows he’s suddenly not paying as much attention to this conversation as he should be.  “It fooled everyone, not just you.  Why should I be angry with you?”

Yuuri lets out a breath.  “Because… I don’t know.  God, I don’t know!  Because my anxiety brain is telling me that my stupid fairy-tale ideas should be true and that just because I love you I should’ve known from the start?  I don’t know.  Sorry.  That’s… that was a stupid question to begin with, wasn’t it?”

Viktor presses his face into his hair, wanting the comfort that comes from feeling surrounded and enveloped by someone who loves him.  He wasn’t really tortured, was he?  He was just imprisoned.  They kept him nourished and they didn’t hurt him, so it doesn’t really count for that.  …Does it?

Pushing that aside, he reminds himself that he’s supposed to be comforting Yuuri right now and kisses the top of his love’s head again.  “Somebody I know well once told me,” he murmurs, “that it’s okay to ask whether you’re loved, however many times you need to hear it, because the answer won’t change.”

Yuuri lets out a breathy chuckle at that.  “You sly man.”

“I try.” 

Yuuri’s fingers stroke lightly over his back, soft and intimate in their little world under the blankets, and Viktor sighs.  His body still feels heavy from sleep, and with Yuuri in his arms again, he’s ready to drift off.  Yuuri sighs, too, relaxing against him, and presses a kiss to his chest.

“Love you,” he mumbles.  “Sleep.”

“Love you too,” Viktor murmurs back, eyes already closed.  “See you in the morning.”

* * *

Sunlight creeps into the room slowly, a direct contrast to the sharp, sudden blaring of the alarm in Yuuri’s ears.  He groans, slaps a hand at the nightstand, and manages to knock his glasses to the floor while completely missing his phone.

Great.

There’s a low, breathy chuckle next to him, and that more than anything is what gets him to open his eyes.  His first order of business is to roll over, grumbling, and shut the offending alarm up; his second is to roll back into the blankets, tuck his face into the soft skin of Viktor’s neck, and embrace denial.

“You’re adorable,” Viktor coos, fingers carding through his hair.  It’s so soothing Yuuri could fall back asleep, his irritation at the fact that it’s _morning_ draining away with every little touch.  Viktor is good at that.  He likes when Viktor holds him.  “You want another five minutes?”

“Mngh.”  Viktor is not getting words out of him.  Not this early.

At least his tired noises elicit another chuckle, rumbling in Viktor’s chest.  Yuuri wriggles against him, purely to maximize the contact between their bodies, and sighs, wrapping his arm around Viktor’s waist.  He is sleepy, it is morning, and he is not getting up.  No.  He is sleepy, and Viktor.  That’s a full stop—just… just Viktor.  Viktor is everything.

Yuuri drifts off into daydreams and a light doze, floating in fluffy blankets and warm embraces, while Viktor’s fingers continue stroking through his hair and tracing the shell of his ear, soft and gentle.  Viktor is so good.  Viktor, Viktor, Viktor.  Mm…

All too soon, those gentle touches become a little more insistent, and Viktor starts to pull back a little, cradling Yuuri close but tipping his chin up.  “Yuuri, my love, sunshine, dear heart,” he croons.  “Wake up, honey.  It’s time to get up.”

Yuuri opens his eyes and squints at him.  He’s propped up on one elbow, looking down at him with the sweetest, most radiant expression Yuuri has ever seen.  The sun makes his hair shine like white gold, and his face is open and soft, his lips curved in the most gentle of smiles. 

He looks fucking perfect.  He’s so beautiful.  What the fuck.  It is too early for this.

Groaning, he rolls over, grabs a pillow, and smushes it over Viktor’s face, making him fall backwards with a muffled noise of confusion.  “ _Stop_.  Too bright.  ‘M sleepy.”

Brightness out of the way, he flops back down and pulls the blankets up to his chin, closing his eyes again.  Viktor shifts next to him, and he opens his eyes to squint up at him again, only to find amusement bubbling up.

Viktor blinks down at him, hair incredibly mussed, one hand on his head as he regards him with the most befuddled, nonplussed face on the planet.  It’s enough to make Yuuri giggle, even in his half-asleep state.

“Too bright…?”  Viktor blinks again.  “What?”

 _“You._   Too bright.  Too pretty.  It’s too early for this.”

In hindsight, he should have known that Viktor’s laughter would only serve to make him prettier.

Anyway, he manages to get himself out of bed after that, and even gets dressed.  The lack of the ring around his neck makes him pause for a moment, as it has for the last couple of days, but every time he remembers the overwhelming _love-love-gratitude-love-ohgodlove-lovelovelove_ that poured out of Viktor’s heart when he clasped the chain around his neck, Yuuri smiles again.  That ring is in a good place now.

He has breakfast with Phichit, Amir, Leki, Rani, Christophe, Rika, and Viktor, all of them gathered together one last time.  Christophe’s steward, Lord Hirsch, is there as well, and Yuuri has to pause and marvel at the fact that Rika has managed to come out of her shell enough to trade banter with him, albeit softly and in her own little ways.  He’s noticed them talking a few times over the two weeks he’s been in Elvetia, but he never realized that they actually got to be friends.  That makes him smile, too.  He’s glad for them.

It’s a morning of many partings; Yuuri asked Leki and Amir, and by extension Rani, to stay with Viktor and to keep him safe during his travels back to Ruthenia.  Phichit, meanwhile, has to come back to Hinomoto with him, since they’re both in the public eye there.  He knows his best friend has been spending a lot of time with his guild friends, which has worked out well for all of them, because he knows he’s been very caught up in Viktor for the past few days.

Now, he, Rika, and Phichit stand in the skyport with everyone else, their luggage already loaded and waiting.  Viktor has his arms wrapped tightly around him, not wanting to let go, and the soft, wistful contentment Yuuri has been feeling all morning fades into sorrow that twists in his stomach. 

Viktor is thinking of their last parting.  He just knows it.

Reaching up, he cups Viktor’s cheek with one hand, the other protectively covering the back of his neck.  “It’s only for a few days, Vitya,” he murmurs. 

Viktor nods but doesn’t loosen his arms, and Yuuri squeezes him tighter in response.

“I’ll see you again soon.  Okay?”

“Okay.”  It’s a hoarse whisper.  Yuuri’s heart wrenches.  Viktor hasn’t cried so far this morning, but he has a feeling it’s just because he doesn’t want to break down in front of anyone.  He’s worried for what will happen later, when Viktor is left alone.  Christophe said he’ll try to take care of him, but he still has his own duties, and he can’t watch Viktor forever.  Yuuri wishes he could stay, or that he could bring his Vitya home to Hinomoto, wishes he could let his mother ply his darling with katsudon and comfort, but… he can’t.  Not yet.

Maybe soon, maybe after this is all over, though, maybe then.  After all, they still have to bathe in the hot springs together.

Yuuri hooks a finger under Viktor’s collar, pulls out the chain with the ring on it, and trails his hand down until he holds the ring, rubbing his thumb over it.  Viktor’s breath hitches.

“This is a promise,” Yuuri reminds him.  He leans up, ring still held between the two of them, and kisses him, soft and sweet and slow and sad, and Viktor melts a little at his touch.  In that moment, Yuuri wants to scoop him up and smuggle him home more than ever, but…

“A promise,” Viktor echoes.  Yuuri kisses the tip of his nose.

“I’ll see you soon.”

The look on Viktor’s face when Yuuri starts to step away is heartbreaking, but he schools himself into a proper little sad smile quickly, as if he never felt that depth of emotion at all.  If Yuuri couldn’t still feel it under the surface, he probably would never have noticed.

“I guess I’m being ridiculous, aren’t I,” Viktor chuckles, squeezing Yuuri’s hands.  He doesn’t want to let go, lingering and reaching even as Yuuri has to make himself pull away, and Yuuri yearns to kiss him again.  He doesn’t, but only because he has a feeling that if he does, he won’t stop.  “It’s only a few days.  I can survive for a few days.”

“You can.”  Yuuri smiles at him, giving in just enough to peck his cheek.  “It’ll be over before you know it, my Vitya.”

Viktor softens again, managing a wavery and much more genuine smile.  “Yours.”

“Hey, lovebirds!”

Phichit’s shout grabs both of their attention, and Yuuri whips his head around.  “What?”

“I don’t wanna interrupt your touching goodbyes, but we have to get going before we’re late!”  His best friend is already halfway up the steps into the sky-carriage, and Rika is waiting at its foot, head turned slightly to give Viktor and Yuuri some semblance of privacy.  Christophe is grinning unrepentantly as Yuuri’s face colors even more than it has already because of the cold, biting wind, and Viktor sighs, running his gloved hands through his hair.

“Right.  Okay.  Wait, I want to see you off on a good note—” 

He reaches for Yuuri again, and Yuuri has practically no time to protest that he’ll melt and never leave if Viktor holds him again before he’s being crushed to Viktor’s chest and drowning in a searing kiss, dipped back over Viktor’s arm in a deep bend.  He almost moans into it, but then Christophe whistles and Yuuri remembers that they’re in front of their _friends._ Embarrassment creeps up from the soles of his shoes to the top of his head, and he breaks away with a gasp.

“Vitya!”

Viktor grins, unrepentant and so roguishly handsome as he holds him, beaming, with pink lips and wind-tossed hair and electric blue eyes that are brighter than the sky behind them, that Yuuri can’t even be mad.  He just starts to laugh, burying his face in his hands as Viktor pulls him back upright, and shakes his head.

Besides, he could never begrudge Viktor a final kiss, not if it makes him smile like this.  This is a happy smile, a laughing smile.  Yuuri likes it a lot better than the soft, sad, brittle one from just a minute ago.

“Okay,” he says, gently breaking out of Viktor’s embrace, still laughing and still blushing.  “Okay.  Bye, then.”

“Bye, darling.  Travel safely.”  Viktor’s voice is warm and sweet like honey, coiling thick and deep in Yuuri’s chest.  It’ll keep him warm all the way home.  “See you soon.”

“See you soon, silly.”

He boards the sky-carriage without further incident, giving Christophe a final quick hug on the way and waving at the assassins and healer who are staying behind with Viktor.  Then Rika follows him on board, and he flops down onto one of the couches with Phichit, who grins.

“So,” he says, nudging Yuuri’s arm.  “Sooo.”

“So _what._ ”

“That was spicy.”  Phichit waggles his eyebrows.  “And that’s coming from the Xianese dude.  Seriously.  I know spice when I see it, Yuuri.”

“We’re courting!” Yuuri protests.  “He’s allowed to kiss me!”

“Oh, I can tell,” Phichit grins, waggling his eyebrows again.  “Not just allowed, I bet.  I think you were pretty into it, huh?”

Yuuri presses his face into his hands.  He is stuck on this sky-carriage with this ridiculous excuse for a best friend of his, for the next several hours.  “I hate you.” 

“You know you love me,” Phichit sings.  “Now, Yuuri, wanna spill the deets on your _courtship?_ When did that happen again?  Was it also spicy?”

“Rika,” Yuuri pleads.  “This is assault.  He’s attacking me.  Please help.”

There’s a silence.  Yuuri lifts his head to find Rika looking back and forth between him and Phichit uncertainly, while Phichit gives her his saddest puppy eyes and attempts to silently plead his own innocence.

Finally, she shifts her weight from foot to foot and fidgets with the ends of her hair.  “…I don’t think I’m going to get involved in this.”

Phichit crows, punching the air enthusiastically, while Yuuri groans and flops back into the cushions, pulling one over his face as they soar higher away from Elvetia’s mountainous winter wonderlands. 

It’s going to be a long flight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOOOOOOOOOOOO WELCOME BACK I LIVE!!! i hope the hiatus wasn't too terribly long for you guys (i'm posting a few days early because i finished nanowrimo a week early so i was like "...why not") haha!
> 
> 1\. i hope nobody was gonna ask me about smut again but please don't. i'm still not changing my stance on that for this story. i felt like a discussion about sex and their comfort levels with it was natural at this point in the development of their relationship, especially because my yuuri is ace-spec though he doesn't have the vocab for it. just... please don't ask me if i'm gonna write smut bc i already have addressed that. thanks! :)
> 
> 2\. i'm tentatively going for my every-other-week posting schedule again! we're heading toward the finale, so hopefully things will pick up around here. c: i think i will want to update on wednesdays, however, so look for 18 on december 13!
> 
> 3\. PLEASE look at this [drawing](http://adreamingsongbird.tumblr.com/post/167629693780/rikichie-rikichie-finished-copy-pasting) of VASI AND BABY VIK that riki made, it watered my crops, cleared my skin, and cured my depression. also sophie drew a S N O O T S M O O C H (can i get a HELL YEAH) for your [viewing pleasure](http://adreamingsongbird.tumblr.com/post/167236414545/sugarlipx-smooch-the-snoot-for) RIGHT HERE!!!!
> 
> 4\. as always, thank you so much to all my readers!!! i read and appreciate every single comment you leave me ♥  
> 4.5. special shoutout to duckie and also anonymous user "what in tarnation" for handling that one rude comment last chapter, i love you guys
> 
> next time: the calm before the storm builds like a symphony of silence, but you, my dear, are its conductor. weave your melodies, my love, and i shall sing alongside you.


	18. a storm is coming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chess pieces settle into place. All is calm... for now.

 

The wind is cold and biting under the dusky purple [sky](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bZJ5Id5GhHE).  Viktor embraces it, lets it swirl into his breath and tug at his heart, pulling at all the power once again resting within him.  Just having it there makes him feel stronger, more secure—less vulnerable and defenseless and useless, like a pink, crying baby with the thinnest skin.  His magic didn’t save him last time, but now he has more of an idea of what he’s up against, and he’s stronger for it.

Or so he hopes.

He’s been telling himself that ever since Yuuri left this morning, repeating it like a mantra throughout the day; his hand keeps finding its way to the ring around his neck, stroking over the cool metal over and over to steal the comfort it holds within. 

It’s not just a ring, it’s a promise.  A promise, a promise, a _promise_.

God, he’ll be so much more comfortable when he can see Yuuri again.  When this is all over and he can hold Yuuri again, can cover him in all the kisses he deserves, can whisper words of love until he believes every single one of them.  Can propose to him again, properly this time, because his Yuuri deserves a good proposal, deserves a good marriage.

“Mon ami,” greets a voice behind him. 

Viktor doesn’t turn, but he does incline his head slightly to acknowledge Chris’s presence, a wry little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

“Must you stand so dramatically in the cold just because your lover has left you?  At least if you have to be dramatic, do it by the hearth, I beg of you.”

Viktor snorts.  “And lose my snowy backdrop?  I don’t think so.”

Chris laughs, coming to stand next to him on the balcony.  He’s holding two mugs, one of which he wordlessly passes to Viktor—it’s hot spiced cider, sending delicious steam wafting into the winter night—as he takes a slow sip from the other.  “I should expect nothing less from you of all people, mm?”

“They did always say I’m a dramatic one, didn’t they?”  Viktor keeps his voice light, breathing in the spiced steam appreciatively. 

He’s going to miss Chris, too.  He has to leave Elvetia tonight; that’s part of the plan they all sat down to work out together when Princess Crispino called with her news from Mila.  He’s going to the Plisetsky Estate to lie low until the day of the tournament comes.  The day of the tournament will be the day it all ends.

The day of reckoning, perhaps.

Ah, and there he goes—maybe there’s some truth in his own words after all.  A dramatic flair never did hurt anyone, he supposes, though he knows Yuuri would laugh at him for saying that out loud, would tease and make him laugh too, before kissing his nose and continuing on with their discussion.

His friendship with Chris is different from his relationship with Yuuri, however, and Chris doesn’t tease the same way.  Instead, he just gives him a sidelong look.

“And since when did you listen to what ‘they’ say about you, hmm, Viktor?”

“I’m a king,” Viktor says, drumming his fingers on the side of his mug.  It’s hot, almost painfully so against his ice-elemental-cooled skin.  He embraces the slight sting of the burn.  “I have to listen to what people say about me.  Ignoring public opinion would be most unwise, you know.”

“That isn’t what I meant, and you know it,” Chris answers, just as light.  “You don’t take these things to heart, do you, mon cher?”

The endearment makes Viktor smile again, a throwback to their bygone days, those times of frivolous youth.  How much they’ve both had to grow up since then.

“I don’t,” he answers after a moment’s pause.  “I just… think, sometimes.”

“Don’t we all,” Chris hums.  He takes another long, slow sip of his cider and sighs deeply into the night air.  “Is tonight’s thinking just melancholy about an empty bed?  Or is it something further?”

“It’s something further.”  Viktor blows out a breath too, frustrated with himself and his own mind’s inability to accept that this parting is only for a few days, not indefinite and awful like the last one.  There’s still some part of him that’s dreading the days to come, purely because last time he had to say a painful goodbye to Yuuri ended in him getting attacked and kidnapped and—and—well—not _tortured,_ exactly, but—put through some very unpleasant things.  Yes.  That’s how he can phrase it.

“Care to elaborate?  Or would you rather forget?”

“I wish I could forget,” Viktor huffs.  “I’ve been trying to forget all day.”

“Oh, Viktor.”  Chris shakes his head.  “That has always been your problem, hasn’t it?”

Viktor looks at him, confused.  “What do you mean by that?”

Chris laughs softly.  “You always try to ignore and forget your problems.  You never even let them bother you if you can help it, let alone tell someone about them.  Haven’t you learned by now that you aren’t going to chase us away?”

Viktor shakes his head.  “I never said I thought I would…”

“And yet, even now, you deny it,” Chris says, smiling an odd little smile that Viktor can’t quite place.  “What do you think you will lose, if you tell me what your something further is?”

Words blank out of Viktor’s mind, and he scrabbles for them for several seconds, feeling distinctly like a fish out of water.  “I—I don’t know.  I suppose if I start talking about it, it’ll sound even more ridiculous out loud than it does in my head.”

“Do you really think it’ll be the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever told me?”  Chris laughs again, that soft not-quite-amused laugh that just means he’s laughing both with and _at_ Viktor a little bit.  “I can assure you, no matter what it is, that it won’t be.  You’ve said some very ridiculous things to me, mon ami.”

Viktor sighs again.  There’s simultaneously too much in his head and nothing at all; disconnected, disjointed fragments of thoughts flurry this way and that, like the snowstorm he itches to call down from the skies to drown himself in something physical rather than mental.  He doesn’t know where to begin.

When he finally does open his mouth, the words that come out aren’t the ones he’s expecting.

“Yuuri said I was tortured.”

Chris doesn’t seem surprised by this.  Viktor doesn’t know if that makes it better or worse.  “Yes, and?”

He shakes his head.  Chris doesn’t _get it_.  “Chris.  I wasn’t tortured.  He was so sure of it, too, but… they didn’t really hurt me.  It was just… I mean, past the initial thing where they _kidnapped_ me, sure, I know I was kidnapped, but—tortured seems like such a strong word!  They kept me in good health and—”

A hand on his shoulder stops him midsentence.  He turns to look at his best friend, vulnerable and confused in the low light.

“Viktor,” Chris says, voice low and a little tighter than it was before.  He’s intent and serious and concerned now, not just languid and indolent, and Viktor swallows.  He’s not used to this, not used to having concerned people like this right there, in front of him, caring like this, being so openly concerned _for him_.  He’s still getting used to opening up properly to Chris, after keeping him at an arm’s length for so long, only now really starting to let him in again.  “You know there are more ways of torturing someone than physical.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Viktor protests weakly, the words sour on his tongue.  It was bad.  It _was_ that bad.  He hated it, he hated every second of it, he found himself wishing the assassin had just killed him and been done with it so he wouldn’t have to lie there in that cot and stare at the walls and ceiling every day.  He … would it be okay to say he suffered?  He _suffered_ in that cell.

Chris gives him a deadpan stare, sipping his cider again.  To keep his mouth from betraying him with any possible words, Viktor echoes the action, lifting his mug and finally taking his first sip.  It’s strong and the spice burns, but in a good way, sliding down the back of his throat like honey.  It soothes him amid all his uncertainty.

“It was that bad,” Chris says quietly.  “Does telling yourself that it wasn’t make you feel better about it?”

No, it makes him feel bad for feeling bad about it, but saying that out loud sounds so incredibly stupid that he’s at a loss.  What can he say?  He just… he doesn’t know what to think.  Why can’t he just get past this already?

One of his hands finds its way up to the ring again, seeking the comfort of Yuuri’s promise.  It’s a promise, they’ll see each other again, and then this will all be over.

“Viktor?”

“No.”  His voice is more panicked and breathless than he thought it would be, the air thick and harsh in his lungs.  Funny.  Why is this so hard to think about?  He’s been through some shit, right?  It was bad!  It was bad and he suffered, but—but—

Chris taps a finger on the side of his mug.  “Then why tell yourself that it wasn’t that bad?”

“I don’t know.”  Viktor takes a gulp of air, trying to breathe easily.  It doesn’t really work, just makes him feel like little shards of ice are digging into his chest from the inside and working their way out, and panicking, he takes a long sip of cider, too.  It burns on the way down, but it doesn’t melt the ice. 

For the first time in his life, the ice isn’t a friend.  He’s even more helpless, at the mercy of something he thought he could trust.  Can he breathe?  Why can’t he breathe?  Why is he saying it wasn’t so bad?  Why does the idea of accepting what Chris and Yuuri are saying about him make him panic like this?  Why does he want to run away from it all?

Suddenly the idea of abandoning this balcony, abandoning his cider and his country and everything else and just leaping over the edge into the snow far below, running away to disappear into the mountains as a recluse in the snow, becoming some kind of ice wraith instead of a king, sounds very, very enticing.  It’s so tempting that ice creeps up his legs from his feet, chilling him to the bone, and he feels anticipation or dread (is there a difference?) rise with it, rising like a growing tide, rising—

“Viktor!”

A gasp tears itself out of his chest.  He jerks himself back to the present with wide eyes, staring at the swirling snowflakes dancing around them, then turns to look at Chris, his heart still in his throat.

“C-Chris, I…”

He tries to turn his body to face his friend too, but his hands won’t come.  When he looks down, scared and confused, he sees glimmering ice.

_Oh._

Idiot that he is, he froze his hands, the mug between them, and the stone bannister under them all into a solid chunk of ice, unaware and unthinking.  It takes longer than he’d like for the memory of the spell to unfreeze them to drift out of the depths of his memory, a spell that _should_ be as easy as breathing.

Perhaps breathing isn’t as easy as it’s made out to be.

A warm hand settles on his shoulder, so warm that it burns like the cider did.  Tears involuntarily spring to his eyes, not from pain but from the ice shards finally melting just enough to let air down his throat again, and he takes in a great, shuddering breath.

“I think we should go inside,” Chris says gently.  Viktor stares at him with wide eyes for a moment, then looks down at his cider, no longer hot or steaming.  He knows spells to heat it up, but he lacks the mental energy.  It seems unappealing and suddenly he wants to cry.

God, he’s so sick of crying.

He lets Chris wrap an arm around his shoulders and steer him to the balcony door, letting go to slide it open before he presses a hand to the small of Viktor’s back to propel him forward.  Inside, it’s much warmer.  Viktor puts the cider away on the first table he sees before following Chris to a couch in front of a merrily blazing hearth.

Chris sits down, passes him the luxuriously soft, plush throw blanket that was draped over the back cushions, and considers him with those piercing green eyes.  “Do you want to talk about what just happened?”

Viktor swallows, hard.  There’s a painful lump in his throat, and once again his fingers tug the ring out from under his collar, thumb rubbing almost frantically over the smooth metal.  “I don’t—I don’t _know_ what just happened.”

“Okay.”  Chris sighs.  “It’s alright.  You don’t have to.  But—”

“I don’t _understand,_ ” Viktor cuts in, letting his despair show in his voice for once in his damn life, because god, this is his best friend and he’s supposed to be able to be honest, isn’t he?  His voice is almost a wail at this point, distraught and dismayed, and he presses the ring to his lips for a moment before continuing.  “Why does saying they—they _tortured_ me—why does that scare me so much?”

“I don’t know, mon cher,” Chris murmurs, reaching over.  He lays a hand over Viktor’s, once again warm warm warm, and Viktor greedily accepts the comfort from that touch.  It’s good—it’s good to know he’s here, he’s really here, and not dreaming in the cell.  Sometimes he still wonders, not that he wants to scare anyone by saying so.

Besides, on the good days, he didn’t wonder at all.  He’s pretty sure that’s what state he’s _supposed_ to be in all the time.  He’s just…

He’s just _not_.

“I think it may be that you want to discredit the magnitude of your own suffering,” Chris continues, soft and contemplative.  “Maybe you do it as a defense mechanism, so you don’t have to consider just how much you’ve been through.  I don’t know either.  Does it comfort you to hear me say that you’re allowed to be upset about it, still?”

Viktor hesitates.  It _does,_ but it’s also been _two weeks_.  He should be over this by now.  He should be over this and looking ahead to the future and all the important things he needs to be doing, not still jumping through the same mental hoops and asking the same damn questions over and over and over again.  It’s over.  It’s over, and he should be over it by now, too, and—

“It seems too good to be true,” he finally says, hesitant and scared.  The words feel heavy and sticky in his mouth, like a lump of peanut butter sitting on his tongue.  “I have other things I should be doing.  Other things that should be getting taken care of.”

“Viktor, my darling,” Chris sighs immediately, squeezing his hand.  He crosses one leg over the other, elegant as always, and shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “Listen to me.  You went through something horrific and traumatic.  The idea that you’d just be over it in two weeks is—it can take _years_ to recover from things like that, and you know it.  Should Yuuri be over what happened to him just because it was a few months back?”

Viktor balks immediately.  He _knows_ this is a verbal trap, but he’s marching right in, taking the bait, hook line and sinker.  “Of course not!  But that’s _different,_ Chris, you know it is.  They hurt him!  They were going to kill him!  Of course that’s still hurting him, he even still has the scars to prove it!  Me, though, I just—”

Chris wordlessly picks up his hand and pushes up his sleeve.  He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even stare at his arm, but Viktor knows what he means, knows exactly what he’s getting at.  There’s a little brown mark, round and healed-over but still scarred, from the huge needle that sat in his arm for weeks.

His voice dies in his throat.

“They weren’t trying to kill me,” he whispers weakly.  It’s not a strong argument.

Chris smooths the sleeve back down and squeezes Viktor’s hand again.  “I’m sorry if doing that startled you,” he says, frowning slightly.  “I should have asked.  But Viktor, you see my point, don’t you?”

“I see it.”  Viktor takes a shaky breath, staring at the fabric that he knows hides that little scar, the one mark all of this left on his body now that he’s been exercising and undergoing healing treatments daily.  That one little mark.  That’s all.  “I just don’t know if I can believe it.”

“That’s alright.  You don’t have to believe me yet.  We’ll get you there.”  Chris pats his hand.  “Yuuri would want you to be kind to yourself, too.  Think of it like you’re being kind to yourself for him, because he’s not here right now.  You have one week to pick up his share of kindness to you.  Think you can do that?”

Viktor huffs out a little laugh, relieved that their conversation has turned back to safer topics, such as Yuuri and his kind heart and all his loving words and everything about him.  “I don’t know,” he jokes, voice weak but smile wry.  “My Yuuri is very kind to me.  I don’t know if I can manage to be quite on his level.”

“Treat yourself how you’d treat him,” Chris suggests, offering a wry smile in return, and Viktor snorts.

“I don’t think I know how to kiss myself on the forehead several times, unfortunately, but if I figure it out, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

Chris laughs.  Viktor feels a little of the tension in his shoulders drain away down his spine and dissipate into nothingness, and suddenly he can breathe; he’s just tired and heavy.  Would it be alright if he took a nap before leaving?

He closes his eyes for a moment and leans into the cushions, letting the velvety upholstery brush against his cheek.  It feels good to just _feel_ things, and he sighs, sinking against the pillows and relaxing properly.  If he pretends hard enough, he can tell himself Yuuri is just in the next room, and maybe if he waits here long enough, half-asleep, he’ll find a soft kiss pressed to his temple as fingers card gently through his hair.

When he opens his eyes again, Chris is smiling at him.  It’s not wry or teasing, but gentle and warm and open, the kind of smile that can only really ever be described as purely _genuine_.  Viktor quirks an eyebrow at him.

“What’s that face for?”

Chris just lets out a low, warm chuckle and pats his hand again.  “You’ll be alright, Viktor.  You’ll be alright.”

Sitting there, cozy in the fire’s glow, Viktor almost thinks he might believe him.

* * *

[04:25] my loving icicle ♥:  
Yuuuuuuuri (´；д；`)  
I miss youuuuuu  
Wait.  
It’s very late/early for you!!  I hope you’re still sleeping!  
I wish I could be there and kiss your cute little nose  
Have I ever told you your nose is cute?  
Yuuuuuriii your nose is very cute and I want to kiss it  
And also the rest of you!!!  
I miss you :(  
Also I wish I had my real phone back, I don’t like not having it  
Not that I am ungrateful for the replacement, but…  
I had some really nice pictures of you and Makkachin on that phone and now HE has it. :<  
I am going to think about kissing you more instead of that, though  
I love you very much my sunflower (｡’▽’｡)♡

[06:32] Yuuri:  
!!!!!!  
omg vitya ;w;  
i love you and i miss you too  
(sunflower omg that’s so cute i cant believe youre so cute)  
(im not awake enough for this!!!!!!! vitya!!!)

[06:34] my loving icicle ♥:  
Good morning, my love!!  Did you sleep well?  
(You are very cute, it must have just rubbed off on me!)

[06:35] Yuuri:  
i cant believe youre doing this to me so early in the morning  
i havent even gotten out of bed yet im not awake enough to outgay you

[06:35] my loving icicle ♥:  
I will not be outgayed!!!!

[06:36] Yuuri:  
oh my god you are such a dork  
my favorite dork in the world  
ughhhghgh vitya i don’t wanna get out of bed im cozy :<

[06:36] my loving icicle ♥:  
Without me? ;)

[06:37] Yuuri:  
unfortunately. get over here. cuddle me. its cold outside these blankets i need my heater

[06:37] my loving icicle ♥:  
Hahaha! I would love to be there and warm you up, if I could…

[06:37] Yuuri:  
how are you feeling today? you guys made it back to ruthenia safely, right?

[06:38] my loving icicle ♥:  
Yes, we did!  Shadow jumping is an odd experience.  It made me a little nauseous.  
Makkachin didn’t really like it.

[06:38] Yuuri:  
D:!!!

[06:38] my loving icicle ♥:  
No worries, dear heart!  Some tea for me and some dinner for him, and we’re fine!  
I had a long talk with Nikolai about next week.  He was a bit shocked, but he’s fully on board.  
I think he’s worried about Yura.  I am, too.  Less worried than before, but worried.   
Sorry, here I am rambling at you when you’ve just woken up!

[06:40] Yuuri:  
like ive told u before, i like listening to your thoughts <3  
i’m worried about yura too. he seems to be doing ok right now, but im still nervous.  
theres just so much that could go wrong…

[06:41] my loving icicle ♥:  
I know.  I know.  
God, I wish I could hold you right now.  I want to hold you.

[06:41] Yuuri:  
the feeling is very mutual, i want to hold you right now also  
also ugh im awake and getting ready for the day and i cant find my favorite scarf :<  
i might have forgotten it in elvetia… sigh. ill ask christophe later i guess

[06:42] my loving icicle ♥:  
… Well, you did leave it in Elvetia, but it’s not there anymore…

[06:43] Yuuri:  
???

[06:43] my loving icicle ♥:  
_[file sent: image.jpg]_

[06:44] Yuuri:  
OOHMYGODHGKDGH  
VITYAAAA im blushing youre too cute i cant HANDLE THIS  
and MAKKACHIN TOO  
and youre WEARING MY SCARF?????? IM????

[06:44] my loving icicle ♥:  
Heehee! o(*^▽^*)o

[06:45] Yuuri:  
(´,,•ω•,,)♡  
i love youuuuuu

[06:45] my loving icicle ♥:  
I love you tooooooo!!!!!

[06:46] Yuuri:  
sighhghh i have to get dressed and do my hair and stuff  
wanna video chat or are you going to bed?

[06:46] my loving icicle ♥:  
We can call until you’re ready, and I’ll go to sleep when you have to go?

[06:46] Yuuri:  
sounds good! <3

_[Incoming call from: my loving icicle_ _♥_ _]_

 

 

* * *

Sighing to himself like a lovesick fool, which he supposes he is, Yuuri smiles at the [picture](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3OdfEL2a_LY) on his phone again.  Seeing Viktor snuggled up with Makkachin across his lap, a blanket around his shoulders and Yuuri’s own powder-blue scarf around his neck as he smiles that specific little smile that’s for Yuuri alone, well… it’s very hard to resist the urge to melt and sink into a puddle of gooey affection right now.

He checks, double-checks, and triple-checks to make sure the photo is saved to his gallery before he sets the phone down and starts styling his hair properly for court today.  The session he’s going to speak at is after lunch, but in the morning he’s meeting with both Minako-sensei and Kenjirou so they can go over the fine details of everything that was discussed and planned in Elvetia.

Viktor, small and sleepy on his screen, sighs too as Yuuri runs his hands through his hair, trying to smooth it flat.  “Wish I could do that for you…”

Yuuri can’t help but smile at him.  He’s lying in bed with Makkachin now, not sitting in an armchair like he was when he sent the selfie, and he looks so soft and cozy and warm and lovely that Yuuri really, really wants to crawl in bed next to him and kiss him and stroke that soft, mussed hair.  “Next week you can.”

“Mmm,” Viktor hums, agreeing.  “I will.  It’s too early to ask you to do your own hair, sunbeam.”

“And yet here I am,” Yuuri laments, running a comb through his hair.  “Doing my own hair.  Also, if either of us is a sunbeam, it’s clearly you.”

“Nonsense.”  Viktor stifles a yawn behind his hand, which is so painfully adorable that Yuuri’s heart soars in his chest.  “I’m the moon.  Whatever I have managed to be, it’s because you make me brighter.”

Yuuri pauses.  “That’s… incredibly sweet of you,” he says, pursing his lips, “but I disagree that I’m the sole reason for you being wonderful.  You were wonderful before I ever met you.”

Viktor shrugs under his comforter.  “You make me better.”

A smile finds its way back onto his lips.  “Alright, but in that case, you’re the sun to my moon, too.  You make _me_ better, Vitya.  You’re not getting out of this.”

“My beautiful, kind-hearted Yuuri,” Viktor sighs dreamily, pressing a dramatic hand to his forehead.  Yuuri laughs as he pretends to swoon while already lying in bed.  “My poor little heart is not strong enough for this, alas!”

“Your heart is plenty strong,” Yuuri teases gently.  “Stop discrediting yourself before I fly over there and make you do it myself!”

“But I _want_ you to fly over here.”  Viktor looks at him plaintively now, blue eyes wide and honest, full of trust and soft vulnerability.  _I’m showing you my heart and my core,_ he seems to say, _so please be gentle with me._ “I want… I want you.”

“Oh, _Vitya._ ”  Yuuri’s breath leaves his chest with a whoosh that leaves behind a tug in the pit of his stomach, a physical ache that reminds him that he _wants_ to hold his poor sweet Vitya but can’t.  Thanks for nothing, distance.  “Just a few days.  We can last a few days, right?”

 _I want you._ Such a simple and direct request.  Yuuri doesn’t want to call attention to it right now, but he’s so incredibly proud that Viktor actually said that to him out loud today, rather than hiding behind implication and never stating his desires out loud so he can pretend they were never noticed when he gets denied.  He used to hide his own needs so much…

God, Yuuri wants to hold him.

“I guess we can,” Viktor sighs, “but I don’t want to.”

He’s back to joking, lighthearted and smiling, but Yuuri still wants to kiss him with all the affection in his heart.  His Vitya deserves the _world._  

“Think of it this way,” he suggests, making a face at the mirror as he struggles to get another lock to lay flat.  “When I do get to see you again, it’ll be that much more of an excuse to cuddle all the time?”

Viktor’s silvery, honey-coated laugh rings out, bright and bold.  “Darling, if you think I need an _excuse_ for that…”

They joke and talk some more as Yuuri finishes putting gel in his hair, then starts applying his makeup for the day.  He applies some simple foundation, then looks at himself critically in the mirror.  He’s always been lucky enough to have good skin, so there aren’t a lot of blemishes he feels the need to cover up, but…

But his eyes are drawn to that stupid, ugly scar on his cheek.  Always.  It’s been months and he still keps staring at the damn thing.  Even his foundation doesn’t fully cover it up.

Frustrated, he pulls out his contour kit and concealer, knowing that he can’t use just one or the other but suddenly wanting to just see himself without it again, wanting to see his face like it’s supposed to be.  God, he’s sick of staring at that scar.

“…Yuuri?”

He freezes, a brush halfway to his face, and looks at his phone.  Viktor looks a little more awake, his head propped up on a hand, and concern is written across his face.

“Yes?”

“Are you alright, sweetheart?”

Yuuri frowns, lowering the brush a little.  Was he that obvious about it, even across a video chat?  “What makes you ask?”

Viktor gives him a funny look.  “You stopped smiling.”

Oh.

Somehow, the words feel far heavier than they should.  _You stopped smiling._ The second he looked at the scar and started thinking about the alleyway, about—about Queen Nikiforova caring for him, _fuck_ he can’t dwell on that or he’ll cry—about…

He sniffles.  “I—I miss you.”

“Oh, Yuuri,” Viktor sighs.  “I miss you too, darling.  I wish you were here and I could hold you and soothe away all the things that are troubling you right now.  I wish this would all be over already so we could just have some time for _us,_ no politics or speeches or anything like that.”

Yuuri takes a shaky breath.  “It’ll be over soon.”

“It will,” Viktor agrees.  “When it is… let’s take some time off.  Just you and me.  We can go on vacation together, spend some time in private, just… relax.  Just us.  Nothing else.  What do you say?

God, he knows Viktor is suggesting this just to make him feel better, knows that in reality, it can’t happen—the thought makes his eyes prick with tears all over again, all the more so because of its implausibility.  There’s going to be so much cleanup to do after the tournament, when they blow this whole story wide open to the public.  So much cleanup, so much damage control, so much…

Biting his lip, he swallows hard against the lump in his throat.  “That… I’d love to.  It sounds really good.”

“Yeah.”  Viktor lets himself sink back into the pillows, seeming to relax a bit.  Yuuri looks at the scar in the mirror again and wonders if he’s the only one who sees all the things he hates about it.

“…Vitya?”

“Mm?”

“Do you…”  He takes a breath.  This question is harder to ask than he thought it would be.  “Do you think this scar is ugly?”

Viktor goes still, so still that for a moment Yuuri wonders if their connection froze.  Then he rolls over and props himself up on his elbows, looking directly into the camera.  “No.  I don’t.  I—I think you’re beautiful, and I also think… Well.  What do _you_ think?”

Yuuri lets that breath out with a quiet hiss.  “I think… it reminds me of things I’d rather forget.”

He thinks back to the prince he was before he was attacked, how nervous and paranoid and underconfident.  If he managed to get over his own fears and talked about his bad feelings to Viktor before, could he have kept the coup from happening?  Could he have saved the Queen’s life?

“Yuuri,” Viktor breathes.  “Yuuri.  You’re _beautiful._ You’re beautiful, and brave, and so strong, and brilliant and resilient and so, so kind, and no scar will ever take that from you.”

He doesn’t get it.  Of course he doesn’t get it, when Yuuri hasn’t told him what’s really troubling him.  It’s all the what-ifs and could-have-beens, all the maybes and could-haves and should-haves and… and…

Maybe, if the assassins had been successful, Viktor wouldn’t have been tortured—

No.  That’s stupid.  That’s a stupid thought from his stupid anxiety brain.  If he’d been assassinated, Hinomoto and Ruthenia well may have gone to war, if it had been spun right, and he knows now that certain factions of the court would have spun it, definitely.  It wouldn’t have saved Viktor.  It wouldn’t have.

“I’m sorry,” he squeaks out, suddenly wanting to cry.

He’s supposed to be strong right now.  Viktor has been through so much.  He’s supposed to be strong to support him, to take care of him, to _fix_ this once and for all.

“Don’t be.”  A pained look tugs Viktor’s brows together, his concern so evident that Yuuri doesn’t even need empathy to feel its magnitude.  It makes him miss having Viktor in close proximity, having Viktor close enough that his presence is constant in Yuuri’s mental landscape.  “You… I don’t know what part about it you hate, but I love all of you.  I hope that’s enough.”

Yuuri takes a deep breath, swallowing the tears through force of will.  There’s already foundation and a bit of concealer on his face, and he has to do the mascara and eyeliner next.  He can’t just start crying now.

“I love you too, Vitya.”

When he glances from the mirror back down to the camera, he sees Viktor looking at him with a soft, unguarded expression, still concerned but loving and gentle, too.  “Do you want to talk about it?”

That’s tempting, but… not right now.  He has a meeting to attend soon, and a speech to give afterwards.  As cathartic as crying to Viktor might be, he can’t afford a breakdown at the moment.  Tonight, maybe, before he goes to bed, though… if Viktor isn’t busy at the Plisetsky Estate…

“I can’t right now,” he admits, using his eyeliner as an excuse not to make eye contact.  “I don’t think I have time.  But, um… if you want to talk this evening, my time?  Tomorrow afternoon for you?”

“Of course, darling,” Viktor says immediately.  There’s relief in his voice, and when Yuuri glances down, it’s in his face, too.  He wants to kiss him for it.  “I’ll be here when you need me.”

 _When you need me._   Yuuri thinks about that, thinks about his Vitya, thinks about their time in Elvetia.  Viktor needed him during those days, needed him and asked for him and told him what he wanted.  It made him feel good—being wanted, being needed, knowing he could help someone he loves—but until now, he doesn’t think he ever thought about whether that might go both ways.

It must go both ways.  It’s like what Viktor said in the bathroom that first morning.  Hell, it’s like what Yuuri said to him.  _We take care of each other._   Of course he needs Viktor.  That’s the entire point of this, right?

“You… you know, I think I’m an idiot,” Yuuri remarks, casually, almost laughing now that it’s clicked in his head.  He feels so silly, falling down the same hole he trapped himself in after the Queen’s death!  Of _course_ he needs to talk to Viktor.  If he doesn’t, and just bottles everything up, he won’t be any help when Viktor needs him!

Viktor looks almost affronted.  “No, you’re not.  That’s me.”

“You were supposed to say that I’m your idiot,” Yuuri teases.

“You’re brilliant, and I will not stand for this slander,” Viktor disagrees.  He rolls over again and presses a hand to his heart, and Yuuri’s breath catches when he notices the ring on its chain, glinting in the lamplight on his chest.  “How dare you speak of the love of my life in such a way, Prince Katsuki?  You will have to answer for these crimes.”

Yuuri laughs, almost smearing liquid eyeliner on his cheek in the process.  _God,_ what an idiot he is!  He’s laughing at himself, not just Viktor’s jokes, though they definitely play a part in his amusement.  How did he let himself get bogged down in the exact same line of thinking _again?_   Silly Yuuri.  “Oh no, it seems that I am a criminal.  Whatever shall I do to atone?”

“Mmm, I think you have to give me ten kisses for each incriminating statement,” Viktor hums thoughtfully, tapping a finger to his lips.  “It’s the only fair punishment.”

Yuuri laughs again, this time careful to hold his eyeliner far from his face.  “How many incriminating statements have I made, good king?”

“At least twenty,” Viktor says promptly, winking. “Probably more.”

“Twenty?!” Yuuri balks, putting the eyeliner down. “You scoundrel, have I even said twenty sentences during this entire call?”

“Definitely.”  Viktor looks very pleased with himself now.  Yuuri still misses him, but the ache in his chest has been replaced by mirth and laughter, and he realizes that maybe this week apart won’t be so bad.  They can still enjoy each others’ company, after all, so the worst of it will just be, apparently, racking up debts of affection. “Should I start counting?  Also, does doubting your own speaking abilities count as twenty-one?”

He’s in love with a complete and utter goofball.

So, so in love.

“Thinking that I haven’t said twenty sentences this entire time is not insulting myself,” Yuuri informs his goofball, oddly pleased that on the morning of such a serious occasion—his speech to Hinomotan court about the renegotiation of the alliance, a process that’s still on hold thanks to dissent in the ranks of their nobles—he and Viktor can still joke around and have _fun._ Having fun together is… well, it’s something that made him first start to fall for his then-fiancé to begin with.

He’s happy that the mess they’re in right now hasn’t taken that from them.

They joke and tease their way through another twenty or thirty minutes, while Yuuri finishes his makeup and then gets dressed in the layers of slightly cumbersome, if beautiful, formal clothing he’ll be wearing for court today.  Viktor, giggling sleepily over the phone, informs him that he’s very beautiful and that it is nothing short of a _sham_ and a _betrayal_ that he cannot be kissed at the moment.

“You should go to sleep, silly,” Yuuri says, amused and affectionate as he places his ceremonial, elaborate circlet upon his brow.  The silver metal is cool against his skin, but as it settles in place and he surveys himself in the mirror, he feels strong.  The man in the mirror is a prince, one who is strong, confident, and self-assured.  He knows what he’s doing.  “You’re hardly awake.”

“You’re too pretty,” Viktor mumbles, still smiling.  He’s turned the lamp off now, and his face is only illuminated by the screen of his phone; Yuuri aches to caress his hair until he falls asleep. “I must already be dreaming.”

“Silly,” Yuuri laughs.  “What a charmer.  Have you never seen yourself?”

“Have,” Viktor hums. “You’re prettier.”

“Oh, go to sleep.” Yuuri shakes his head, while Viktor hums at him again, soft and sleepy. “You’re not even awake; that must be why you’re saying such silly things. You’re clearly the prettiest man on the entire planet, my dearest Vitya.”

“So sweet,” Viktor coos.  His voice is breathy and gentle, his eyes mostly closed.  He’s hanging on by a thread, just barely staying awake to talk to Yuuri; Yuuri yearns to hold him, to rock him to sleep, but distance lies like eternities between them, and he’s about to have to leave. “My sweet, beautiful Yuuri.  My sunshine, my heart.”

Cheeks flushing a little pink, Yuuri blows a kiss to the camera.  “All yours,” he agrees.  Glancing at the clock makes him wince, however, and he sighs, picking the phone up.  “I have to get going for breakfast with Minako-sensei and Kenjirou now, honey.  I’ll talk to you when you wake up, okay?”

Viktor lets out a noncommital hum, then seems to remember that he knows how to use words.  “Mmkay.  Love you.”

“I love you too,” Yuuri smiles.  He lingers a moment longer, not wanting to look away from Viktor lying there all cozy and soft, not wanting the quiet intimacy of their little moment to end, but time keeps ticking by and he has to go, so he ends the call and puts his phone into his pocket.

A few minutes later, he finds himself in a private dining room, seated comfortably at a low table with Minako-sensei, Kenjirou, Mari, and Phichit, who for his part looks very sleepy and promptly lays his head on Yuuri’s shoulder.

“Good morning to you, too,” Yuuri teases gently, patting his hair.  “I take it you didn’t sleep very much?”

“It’s too _early…_ ” Phichit sighs, plaintive.  For a moment Yuuri sees him like he did a few years ago, like a boy younger than himself that he wants to protect.  Then he wants to laugh at himself, because Phichit doesn’t need protection, and certainly not from Yuuri of all people.  Phichit is formidable in his own right.

But he’s also still cute, sweet, and lovable.

And sleepy.

“You should eat breakfast,” Mari urges.  “Food will wake you up.  And there’s tea.  Jasmine green.  It’s good.”

“If you have to sleep, can you lie on my lap instead?  That way I can still use my arm,” Yuuri adds.  Phichit sits up to give him a considering look, pours himself a cup of jasmine tea from the teapot in the center of the table, and then flops down with his head in Yuuri’s lap while, presumably, waiting for it to cool.

Yeah… not a morning person.

Oh well.  He’ll probably interject when need be, and will otherwise just doze.  He needs his rest, anyway.  If Yuuri recalls correctly, he was re-enchanting some of his knives during last night’s new moon.

“How was Elvetia, Yuuri?” Kenjirou chirps.  He’s been filled in on everything going on in Ruthenia—of course he has, given that he’s going to reprise his role as principle ambassador should everything go to plan—and he knows the real reason Yuuri went to the ball in Petersburg, went to Elvetia.

“Elvetia was… good,” Yuuri says, looking down at the steaming rice in front of him with a smile.  He can’t wait to bring Viktor here one day soon, for the hot springs and some relaxation… God, he hopes everything works out.  Part of it is riding on him, with today’s speech.  “Really good.  He’s—Viktor, I mean—he’s doing a lot better.  So… yeah.  It was good.  Thank you for asking.”

Minako gives him an appraising look.  “He made it back to Petersburg with the other assassins, right?”

“The Plisetsky Estate,” Yuuri corrects, “but yes.  He just went to sleep.  They made it safely and met with Nikolai Plisetsky.  That part of things is secure, now, I think.”

“The Plisetsky Estate is right near Petersburg, isn’t it?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Not quite,” Kenjirou pipes up. “It’s close by, but not on the border of the city or anything.  It’s, oh, maybe an hour’s travel away, I’d guess?”

“Something like that, yeah,” Yuuri agrees.  “So he’s not right in the eye of the city.  But when the tournament comes, it’ll be easy to get there.”

“The tournament, huh.”  Mari looks pensive.  Yuuri feels a little apprehension from her and knows she’s just worried, turning all of this drama over in her mind.  He gets that—there is a _lot_ going on, and he’s the one directly mixed up in it all.  “Okay, so let me just get this straight again.  They’re pushing for a bill to take power from the throne and vest it in a council of nobles that’s corrupt as hell and spearheaded by Ivanovich himself, right?”

“Right,” Yuuri nods.  Phichit mumbles something like _fuck that guy, honestly,_ and in appreciation for the sentiment, Yuuri pats his entire face.

“I’ll lick your hand if you don’t get it off my mouth,” his best friend threatens.  Yuuri moves his hand quickly.

“And it was supposed to get passed right when Prince Plisetsky returned to court, but thanks to Lady Babicheva it’s been debated enough to get that pushed back?” Mari continues, frowning slightly.  “I’m surprised she hasn’t been found out yet.  Not that I don’t think she’s good at spying or anything, but just… damn.  That’s a hard line to walk, you know?”

“Yeah,” Yuuri agrees.  “I’m worried about her.  And about Yura.”

Mari pats his shoulder, but before she can offer any words of comfort or advice, Minako pipes up again.

“Well, just for the moment assuming their plans work out and everything, let’s just run through the scenario real quick, shall we?”  She clears her throat.  “So the bill finally gets passed, then scheduled to be announced at the end of the tournament.  Then… something happens and you walk away victorious, somehow?”

“That’s the gist of it that I got when we talked about it last time,” Mari agrees.  “Any idea what the _something_ is, little bro?”

“Uh… we were thinking of just exposing the false Viktor by having the real one show up while they’re both in public,” Yuuri explains, rubbing the back of his neck.  “Especially because the false one will probably use up the last of the blood they have in storage for the day of the tournament.  If we stall and keep him in public, his disguise will falter.”

“You don’t think Ivanovich or Petrov would’ve thought of this?” Minako asks, drumming her fingers on the table.  “I’m sure they have a backup plan.”

Yuuri sighs.  “I know.  I’m sure they do, too.  That’s part of why I’m going to be there, too, because if I can take care of Ivanovich’s philology, I know Vitya can handle that scumbag Sergei.  And besides, Ivanovich wanted to kill me to make Hinomoto and Ruthenia go to war.  I feel like that’s a pretty personal offense.  I can’t honorably just stay home and say this is not my fight when the alliance was a huge factor in how it started to begin with.”

“Nobody’s saying you should do that, kiddo,” Mari assures.  “We’re just trying to think about this from multiple angles.  You’re gonna give your speech today, and as an act of goodwill, the Plisetsky kid is gonna invite you over for the tournament.  So that’s your excuse for going, sure.  I’m mostly wondering about what’s going to happen on the actual day of.”

Phichit raises a hand.  “Gonna kick _ass,_ ” he announces blearily, and Kenjirou laughs.

“About that,” he says.  “I know I’ll be here at home, but I was thinking…”

Yuuri considers his words carefully, and they end up going back and forth over several topics until breakfast drags on, and on, and on.  But finally, when they finish and Yuuri and Mari retreat to freshen themselves up for court, he feels more confident, like they finally have a real, solid plan.

* * *

 

“It’s kinda weird, but good weird,” Yuri says, peeling a string from the mandarin in his hand and flinging it at his saucer.  He’s successfully raided some of the tea Katsudon left here (they drank this one together before), specifically the orange black tea, and it pairs well with both chocolate and fruit, in his opinion, so he’s into it. 

Beka looks up from his teacup, sipping it carefully.  He’s one of those people who drinks piping-hot, steaming tea.  Yuri has never understood and will never understand how he can do that without scalding his fucking throat off, but whatever, Beka, you do you, he supposes.  “What is?”

“Doesn’t feel as scary to be back as I thought it would.”  He shrugs.  “It’s like… now that we have an actual plan it’s a lot more, I dunno, secure?  Y’know what I mean?”

Beka considers that for a moment, then nods.  “It’s good that we have allies internationally.  I think that’s what made the difference here, at least for us.”

 _We.  Us_.  Beka really meant what he said about doing the right thing, didn’t he? 

It strikes Yuri, as he sits there and munches on his mandarins, that there really is no right way to be a prince.  How did he go so long without noticing that he thought both Beka _and_ Viktor were fucking amazing at what they did, while both being so _different?_ Beka is honest and stout and pragmatic, while Viktor is lofty and elegant and refined.  They’re _so_ different.  But they’re both good princes and…

Huh.

God _damn,_ if only he’d stopped trying so hard to get out of Viktor’s shadow sooner.  Maybe he would’ve realized he didn’t have to be in it to begin with.

Anyway, he pulls himself back to the conversation at hand and just nods, tucking one foot under himself and leaning over to grab another slice of mandarin.  “Yeah.  That’s the thing that’s different.  Because like… it makes us safer, right?  If anything happens to us, that’s just even more solid evidence for Katsudon to use to call Ivanovich and them all out on it, and they know it, so they can’t touch us.  Right?”

Beka nods again.  Yuri internally pats himself on the back for feeling on top of the international political games, for once.  “More to the point, I think, is that they’re surely trying to find an excuse to get Viktor out of the public eye for good, now that they’ve lost his blood supply.  If I were them, I’d want the real Viktor either recaptured or dead.  They don’t know where he is, though, so that makes it harder for them.”

Yuri nods, sitting up a little straighter.  They have to be careful while talking about this, and they both know it—they checked the rooms thoroughly when they got back, and they did find one hidden microphone in the bedroom and another in the sitting room, but after learning that the guards were part of the coup, Yuri doesn’t trust any of the palace staff.  Not even the ones he’s known for years.  Who’s to say that cleaning staff might not have planted more?  And it’s always a possibility that they missed some.

So before conversation gets to Viktor and his whereabouts, he steers it back to safer grounds, which consist of reiterating what Ivanovich already knows they know.  Stuff other than that, like secret stuff, they agreed only to discuss when away from palace grounds, like whenever Beka goes to the Qazrazin embassy to talk politics with his family.

“Which means they can’t take me out, too, not without a lot of suspicion because of three members of the royal family all dying in such a short time frame.”  He nods.  A little part of him wonders what happened to the boy who was so taken aback by hearing Viktor and Katsudon so casually discuss their own theoretical deaths, all those months ago.  Here he is now, joining their ranks.

“Exactly.”  Beka sips his tea again, crossing his legs.  “So you’re safe, and by extension, I suppose, I am too.  My hero.”

Yuri rolls his eyes.  “Shut up, stupid.  Of course they won’t kill you if I’ll know what happened for real and they can’t stop me from calling them out on it.”

Beka smirks ever so slightly, hiding his amusement behind his teacup.  A moment of silence passes, and then he sets it down again, shifting forward a little.  “So, the tournament is coming up.”

“I noticed, yes,” Yuri says acerbically.  He’s been in so many stupid pointless meetings he’s going to go insane and light something on fire.  Will it matter if the tablecloths at the banquet for the winner are white or eggshell if they’re just _ashes_ instead?

Beka snorts.  “Think you’re ready for it?”

“Hell yeah I am.”  Yuri grins a little viciously, ripping off a string from his next mandarin with a little more force than is strictly necessary.  “That trophy is mine this year.  There’s no _way_ that asshole can beat me.  I’ve trained against _Viktor._   He’s going _down._ ”

“He probably knows that.”  Beka looks vaguely amused now, reaching over to snag a mandarin slice from Yuri’s saucer.  “Maybe he’ll fall ill and withdraw so he doesn’t have to explain why he’s losing to you so badly.”

Yuri frowns.  It sounds like a logical excuse, actually, and that’s irritating.  “He better not.  Or else I’ll kick his fucking ass in his own damn sickbed.  As if it’s a real sickbed.  By the way, he’s ugly as shit.  No wonder he wanted to impersonate Viktor.  He just wanted a pretty face for once in his stupid life, I bet.”

Beka actually laughs at that, and Yuri grins again. 

“Nah, but for real,” he adds, smile fading a bit, “I actually fucking hate that I’m doing tournament prep work alongside court when there’s like… you know.  All the rest of this going on.  Feels like that would all be way more important than approving menus and decorations and all that bullshit.”

“You need the details to make up the big picture,” Beka says like the sage old man he is at heart.  If there wasn’t a teacup right next to him that runs the risk of falling over onto _Yuri’s couch_ , Yuri would definitely throw a pillow at him.

“Yeah, but like, why do I have to be the one approving all this shit?”  He slumps down on the couch a little, crossing his arms and maybe pouting a little bit.  “Viktor should be the one doing this.  Not me.”

Normally, the annual tournament is held before Viktor’s birthday.  So like, technically, it should have already happened.  But normally, the reigning monarch of the country doesn’t just fucking die in autumn, right when tournament prep is supposed to be kicking into swing, and _normally,_ it doesn’t have to get pushed off a few months for her funeral.

What he’s saying is, Aunt Vasilisa should still be on the throne, Viktor should still be crown prince, and Yuri himself shouldn’t have to deal with any of this at all.

But… this year is proving to be anything but normal.

“I know,” Beka sighs, laying a hand on his knee for a moment before he removes it to get another mandarin.  Yuri rolls his eyes at him.  “We shouldn’t be having to do any of what we are doing.  But we don’t really have much of a choice.”

“I know that,” Yuri huffs.  “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

Beka quirks a small smile at him.  “I don’t think any of us do.”

* * *

“Alright.  You’ve got this, kiddo.  Don’t freeze up, and just remember to breathe.”  Minako pats him on the shoulder, and Yuuri gives her a grateful look. 

She sends him a little brush of slightly stern encouragement, like she always does, then steps aside and heads to her seat in court.  She sits near the dais, being a high-ranking noble advisor, and he takes his seat next to his mother.  Mari sits on the other side, at their father’s right.

[Court](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xm8kpZoX32k) today is an open session, one that’s going to be, hm… pivotal to the plan he’s put together with Viktor.  They’re going to discuss the alliance again.  It’s only the second time since he’s returned home from Ruthenia that first time that he’s participated in an open court session about the alliance, needing some time to nurse his broken heart.

Alright.  He can do this.

He sits, regal and composed, at his mother’s side, keeping his face at a pleasant neutral and his posture upright.  It’s important that he looks strong, today more than ever; if he’s going to present a case to Hinomoto that the Hinomoto-Ruthenian Alliance is still beneficial, and that the insult to himself is forgivable, he needs to make _sure_ that they don’t think he’s just weak and cowed by what he faced in Ruthenia.

They can’t think he’s just soft and brokenhearted and idealistic.  He needs to be the face of his people and the voice of reason.

Besides, as Viktor would remind him, he isn’t here to _look_ strong.  He’s here because he _is_ strong.

Imagining his darling next to him, murmuring words of encouragement, makes it easier to keep his chin high and his mind clear.  He’s … actually a lot less terrified than he thought he would be, given how much is riding on this speech and today’s session.  Of course, it matters a little less whether or not he convinces court, because after this weekend’s tournament in Ruthenia there will be massive upheaval, but he has to make sure he delivers it just right and does so in a way that makes it easy for Yura to invite him to Ruthenia as a gesture of goodwill.

He’s doing this for Yura just as much as he is for Viktor.  He loves both of them too much to _not_ do this well.

Ah.  There comes the pressure, the stress, the anxiety.  He was wondering where it was hiding.  Luckily, however, it isn’t all-encompassing, not this time, and he mentally congratulates himself on remembering to take his meds.

Once or twice during the opening proceedings of court, he feels Minako brush his mind with offerings of _calm-calm-tranquil-confidence_ , ensuring that he’s alright in her own ways.  It makes him smile slightly, and he sends back _thank-you-thank-you-love_ , because the calm helps every time the anxiety comes a little too close.  She always watches out for him in court when they know he’s going to have to speak.

Honestly, at this point he’d rather just get it over with and be done.  It doesn’t _matter_ if he convinces court, so long as he gives Yura an excuse to extend an official offer of friendship, but it would certainly make things easier if he could.  If he could just generate more sympathy for Viktor and what he’s been going through, without letting any information that could jeopardize their mission or Viktor’s safety out, that would be ideal.

And that’s what they discussed this morning!  That’s what he’s going to do.  He has the notes, he has a head that’s as clear as he’s going to get it, and he has…

Wordlessly, Hiroko lays her hand over his for a moment, giving it a gentle squeeze, and Yuuri pulls himself out of his mind and back into court.  That’s right.  It’s almost his time to speak.  Mari is outlining the docket and points of business for today; the alliance is first and foremost on that list.

Okay.  Okay.  Okay.

A deep breath in, a deep breath out.

 _I can do this,_ Yuuri tells himself.  He’s not just scared, sad, lost little Yuuri who needs protection and reassurance.  He is strong, he is a prince, and all he’s doing is convincing a court that was offended on his behalf that the offence was not what it seemed.  If they truly care about him and what happened to him in Ruthenia, they will listen, and they won’t hate him or anything ridiculous like that.

Yuuri stands and takes the floor.

“My esteemed fellow countrymen,” he begins, voice faltering just a little.  He swallows, reminds himself again that he _can_ do this, and finds it within himself somewhere to smile.  “Thank you all for your time.  I am deeply honored to be in your company today.”

He bows to the assembly seated around the dais, then continues.

“I also thank you from the bottom of my heart for your prompt defense of me, and your rightful wrath over my unexpected departure from Ruthenia.  I am honored and touched at the depths of your concern, and I cannot thank you enough for wanting to protect me in this way.  You are all very kind.”

There is a small smattering of applause and a few looks of approval from various heads of houses, especially those who were loudest in their dismay and their anger at Viktor when the dissolution of the engagement was first announced.  Yuuri remembers their faces and their names, making sure to lock eyes with each and every one of them and smile.

“As you all know, we are here today to discuss the renegotiation of our alliance with Ruthenia, in light of what has transpired recently in Petersburg.  I do not want to waste your time, honored assembly, so I will try not to beat around the bush when broaching this topic.  I feel that it is of utmost importance that we uphold terms as close to the original ones as we can, if not negotiating more amenable ones for Hinomoto.  I do not believe we should withdraw from the alliance or distance ourselves from Ruthenia, and I hope I can explain to you why, in a satisfactory manner.”

He takes a deep breath.

“First, I would like to take a moment to share with you some of my findings from personal experience in Ruthenia’s court.  The Nikiforovs are a kind and just House, and they are noble as well as honorable.  When I first arrived in Petersburg, they were very hospitable and were sure to accord me the utmost care, as we would expect of them. 

“Not only this, but they made sure to keep me safe and to attend to my personal interests and needs as well as my political interests.  I would like you all to know that they are not callous people, and that in fact the dissolution of my engagement to King Nikiforov was an act of sacrifice, not selfishness, but I shall return to that in a moment.”

Yuuri talks for what feels like an eternity.  He tells a few personal anecdotes, stories carefully selected to highlight Viktor’s kindness and nobility, or Queen Vasilisa’s strength and compassion, or Yura’s concern and good heart.  He emphasizes that they are a good family and just rulers, both personally and politically, over and over and over.

He moves on, then, to describe court.  He talks about the factions, describing Ivanovich and Golovkina’s attempts to undermine the throne and the alliance, knowing that many members of Hinomotan court might not be familiar with the inner mechanisms of Ruthenia’s, and elaborates on their characters as well.  He wants his court to have an accurate picture of the Ruthenia that he lived in, an accurate picture of Yuuri’s Petersburg and Yuuri’s Viktor Nikiforov.

(Not Yuuri’s _Vitya_ , of course.  Yuuri’s Vitya stays guarded safe in his heart.  The world has done enough to him.)

The emotions in the room shift and settle, eddying like currents in a stream or flurries of snow, and he occasionally brushes Minako’s mind for another touch of _calm_ to steady himself whenever having so many eyes on him starts to feel like too much.  His empathy has gotten much stronger, much more refined, ever since he went to Ruthenia and felt like he had to keep active tabs on everyone around him at all times; being in his own court after that is a little strange in its intensity, but…

 _Breathe,_ he reminds himself, pausing between sentences.  It’s intense, but he can handle this.

Finally, he returns to the topic from before—the moment that caused the most offense to people in this room, the thing that sent Hinomoto into an uproar: Viktor’s dissolution of their engagement.

This topic is tricky, because this is an open session of court, and he’s being recorded.  This speech will be available internationally, and since Ivanovich knows that Yuuri knows what he’s done, he’ll _definitely_ be watching.  Which is fine, because knowing that he’s being watched ensures that he can’t do anything to Yura without Yuuri calling him out for it, but it does mean he has to pick his words carefully to avoid rousing more suspicion than there already will be about the day of the tournament.  The less Ivanovich, Petrov, and Sergei expect of them that day, the better their odds will be.

“I have spoken to King Nikiforov about his reasoning,” he says, forcing himself to remain calm and content in the eyes of the court.  “I am afraid that in this open setting, I cannot divulge everything that he said to me, for fear of spilling sensitive material that could lead to one of us getting hurt, but I can assure you that his reasoning was, in fact, sound.  Please, trust my word on this.  King Nikiforov was of the mind that if I remained in Ruthenia, I would be in danger from a certain faction of his court, and there was no conceivable way to get me out of the country for an extended period of time right before our scheduled wedding save this.

“I realize that this might be difficult for you to accept, because I cannot present the evidence to support his claim to you, but I have seen it, and the King, the Queen, and the Crown Princess have also seen it, and they are in accord with King Nikiforov’s decision and bear him no ill will.  My countrymen, I urge you to do the same.  House Nikiforov means us no harm and no offense.

“I know many of you feel that this situation could have and should have been handled with far more delicacy, a sentiment I absolutely understand, but given the circumstances with King Nikiforov’s grief over the loss of his mother, I plead with you to give him some leniency in this matter.  Truly, House Nikiforov is a noble one, and their intentions toward Hinomoto are true.”

He’s starting to get a little nervous again, just thinking about the upcoming tournament and how much of a fine line he’s walking by needing a feasible to get Yura’s attention without letting Ivanovich and his compatriots know that they’re going to act on the day of the tournament.  Surely Ivanovich already expects it, given that it’s the first major event hosted by the palace since Viktor’s escape, but that doesn’t mean they should confirm those suspicions.  The less security there is at the event, the better it will be for them.

“Therefore,” he continues, “I entreat you, my fellows, to regard the terms of our alliance with compassion and open minds.  There is less reason to take offense at Ruthenia than it originally seemed, and I know that the ruling house of Ruthenia means us well.  The alliance would greatly benefit us in many ways that I am sure you are all aware of, the trade benefits not the least of these, and I urge you not to forget these things just for the sake of my honor, although I appreciate your willingness to do so more than words can say.

“Thank you all.  I am sure that we, together, will find a way to do the best thing for Hinomoto, and once again, I thank you for your time and attention.”

Mouth dry, Yuuri bows again, then returns to his seat, taking several sips from his glass when he sits down.

His mother pats his hand and smiles at him.  “You did well.”

“Thank you,” he whispers back.  Being in front of crowds and cameras is always nerve-wracking, no matter how many times he does it; he knows from watching his own speeches and court sessions that he doesn’t _look_ like a mess, at least, but god does he feel like one.  His nerves are going to be rattling and high all day, or at least until he gets Yura’s invitation in the evening.

As soon as this session is over, he’s calling Viktor.  He wants to hear his voice.

His eyes find Phichit’s, way off in the assembly, near the back.  He’s not one of the highest-ranking members of court, so he doesn’t sit close to the dais, even though he’s known to be close to Yuuri; his position in court is mostly an honorary title granted by the royal family because of that closeness.  But Phichit still gives him a bright, encouraging grin when he sees him looking, even sneaking a thumbs-up at him.  It makes him smile back.

There’s a lull as the lords and ladies of the court whisper in hushed murmurs to each other, no doubt dissecting the speech Yuuri just delivered.  They have a few minutes to discuss amongst themselves, but soon there will be room on the floor for more speeches to be made and delivered, and more discussions to be had.  For all he knows, someone is going to come up and attempt to dispute everything he said about the Nikiforovs.

That’s the worst-case scenario, actually, because Yuuri knows he has to be a staunch defender of their would-be ally in order for Yura to justify inviting him to see the tournament as a gesture of goodwill.  If someone directly challenges the speech he just gave, he will have to move to debate protocol to defend his position.  He’s never really done that before, usually content to say his piece and let others say theirs, but if he lets it slide this time, it’ll make it harder for Yura to get him to Ruthenia next week, and…

He’s _not_ going to let Viktor has to face anything like this alone ever again.  

So he knows, feels it deep in his bones as he sits there and watches the entirety of his court whisper back and forth, watches the cameras pan across the room, watches as their eyes flick back to him here and there, he _knows_ that he’s going to do whatever it takes.

* * *

 

After the speechmaking and debating sessions of court end, Phichit waits just outside the doors as nobles trickle out past him.  Yuuri is still inside, talking to his sister and his parents, but he’ll be out soon for sure, and knowing him, he’s gonna be a tightly coiled ball of tension.  Instead of letting him do anything stupid, reckless, or irresponsible, Phichit is planning to drag him to either the sparring grounds or the dance studio to get him to deal with himself in actually healthy ways.

Sure enough, after a few minutes, Yuuri strides into the main hall, eyes blazing as Rika follows silently behind him.  He’s mad, Phichit would bet.  That’s fair; Phichit was mad, earlier, too.

“I can’t believe that man would try to contradict me like that,” he fumes as Phichit falls into step next to him easily.  “Saying that he doesn’t think that offense is forgivable when I haven’t been able to provide enough support is one thing.  Saying that he flat out thinks I got manipulated and I just somehow don’t know it—ugh!  What the hell!”

“He’s an arrogant dickwad and we both know it,” Phichit soothes.  Rika disguises a snort as a cough. “He thinks he knows best just because he’s old.  Ignore him, Yuuri, you took him apart and his rebuttal was weak.  Everyone could see it.  Just because there wasn’t enough time for you to have the last word doesn’t mean he was right.  I don’t think he even convinced himself.”

“Debating just stresses me out,” Yuuri huffs, crossing his arms and pouting.  He looks less furious and more grumpy now, and it’s kind of adorable?  Phichit pinches his cheek playfully and grins when Yuuri swats his hand away.  “Debating is stupid.  Stop that.”

“I mean, you handed him his own ass on a silver platter, so like, debating might be stupid but you’re good at it at least?”  Phichit shrugs.  “I dunno, my dude.  Fighting with swords, I can do.  Take off the first ‘s’, though, and then it’s just your game.  I can’t do words to save my life!”

That does the trick.  Yuuri huffs out a little laugh, and the tension hunching his shoulders drains away just slightly.  Phichit congratulates himself mentally.  Score one for Chulanont in the game of ‘Taking Care Of Your Best Friend’!

“Where are we even going, anyway?” Yuuri wonders, wrinkling his nose when he realizes he’s just been following Phichit.  “I don’t wanna go sit in my rooms, Phichit, I think I should… I dunno.  Maybe go to town?  No, that’s a bad idea…”

“Hush,” Phichit says, booping his nose.  “We’re gonna stop by your rooms, get your dance gear, and head over to that little ballroom you practice in.  Get with the program, Yuuri, you should know this already.”

“I should?” Yuuri blinks.

“Yes,” Phichit says patiently.  “How many times have I abducted you after you got stressed out and locked you in the dance studio?”

“Uh…”

Yuuri starts to count on his fingers, squinting at the floor in thought as he walks, and Phichit bursts into laughter.   

“Okay, okay!  See, you’re just proving my point!”  He waves an arm.  “We’re going dancing.  Hey, Rika—have you seen Yuuri dance, ever?”

Rika blinks, then shakes her head.  “Not recently, no.  I do remember sometimes seeing him demonstrate things from ballet when we were young, but nothing recently.”

“See?”  Phichit slings an arm around Yuuri’s shoulders.  “Now you have to show her your moves, Yuuri.  And you can even get your _boyfriend_ in on video call.  I can hold it and zoom in on your—”

_“Phichit!”_

“I know, I know.  You’re welcome.  It’s what friends are for, Yuuri.  I’m just saying, the offer stands if you ever want it.”

Yuuri sighs.  “You are incorrigible.”

Phichit grins.  “That’s what you love about me.”

He releases Yuuri as they keep walking, though he stays close.  Between him and Rika, Yuuri is probably the most well-guarded man on the planet.  He can tell Yuuri is still tense despite the moment of laughter, which is why he doesn’t suggest they pause in the sitting room and have a nice cup of tea or something.  Instead, Rika settles primly on a couch to wait while Phichit ditches his court robes for some more comfortable athletic clothing and Yuuri washes the makeup from his face before doing the same.

When they head to the side-ballroom-turned-dance-studio, Yuuri pulls his phone out and taps out a quick message, to his loverboy Phichit would assume.

“What time is it for him?”

Yuuri blinks.  “Um… about nine in the morning?  He’s eight hours behind us right now.”

“You know what’s funny?”  Phichit bumps his hip playfully. “He’s your boyfriend now, _after_ he was your fiancé.  Most people go in the opposite order.”

Yuuri quirks an eyebrow at him.  “Well, I guess I’m not most people, then.”

Damn.  True.

Yuuri’s phone dings with a response—loverboy must be awake, then—and Phichit sees his face light up.  As Yuuri types out a response, Phichit catches Rika’s eye and winks; she grins back at him, a little shyly maybe, but no less co-conspiratorially.  Good.  After all the teasing they put Yuuri through on the sky-carriage, he’d be scandalized if Rika _didn’t_ wink, grin, or somehow otherwise acknowledge him now.

Yuuri is so engrossed in his texting that Phichit has to calmly hook his arm around his shoulders and steer him away from a wall.  This isn’t something particularly new, and Yuuri doesn’t actually even look up.  Typical Yuuri.

Eventually, when they reach the ballroom, loverboy puts in a video call.  Yuuri beams at his phone and waves brightly.  “Hi, Vitya!”

“Hello, my lovely Yuuri!” Viktor’s voice crackles from the speaker.  “Are you going to dance for me?”

Yuuri laughs softly, ducking his head, and Phichit and Rika trade glances again.  “I, um… I could?  I was just going to dance in general, I mean… Phichit dragged me here after court, so I was going to run some exercises and basics for a while.  I haven’t had the chance to dance properly in a while, so I need the practice.”

“Everything you do is beautiful and I would be delighted to watch anything you want to show me,” Viktor says, his voice a little dreamy.  Phichit has to stifle a laugh at the bashful but pleased look that puts on Yuuri’s face.  God, they’re cute.  He’s glad Viktor is so good to Yuuri.  Yuuri deserves someone who wants to take care of him and treat him well.  “Why did Phichit have to drag you?”

“Because,” Phichit calls, sliding on over behind Yuuri to stick his head into the camera frame, “he’s all stressed about the speech and stuff, and he needs to stop _thinking_ about the part where he had to debate old fart Suzuki.”

This last part is said with some emphatic poking to Yuuri’s cheek, which Yuuri looks far too unimpressed by.  Phichit is just _trying_ to be helpful, clearly.  Clearly!

“Oh!”  Loverboy suddenly looks worried.  “I found a livestream of the speeches, but it was a little difficult to watch because there was no translator spell and I’m afraid I got spoiled by those.  Is everything alright?”

“Yes, yes,” Yuuri assures him quickly.  “I’m fine, just a little— _ugh._ He didn’t _listen_ and he was so presumptuous!  It just made me so mad.  I’m fine, just frustrated.  I wish he hadn’t run overtime.  I could have given him another rebuttal—”

“Yuuuuuri,” Phichit sighs.  “Like I said, you already pretty much tore his wrinkled, whiny old ass apart—”

Yuuri wrinkles his nose.  “Ew.”

“—with that one rebuttal you had.  You’re _fine._ His second speech didn’t hold water, and if I, someone who sucks at court stuff and debate and all that, could see that, then I promise you everyone else in that room could, too.”

“Well, okay, thanks,” Yuuri says, “but I really didn’t want to think about his ass, actually, so _no_ thanks for that one, Phichit.”

“You could think about mine instead,” Loverboy chirps, winking, and Yuuri’s face immediately flames red.  Phichit bursts into laughter and automatically raises his hand for a high-five before remembering that this is only a video call.  Rika, bless her, steps up to make sure he isn’t left hanging.

“I could,” Yuuri says, his face still glowing like an ember.  “It’s a lot nicer than anything Suzuki has to offer, I definitely agree.”

He sticks his head in the air, hands his phone to Phichit, and stalks off to strip off his sweater and shawl and put on his dance slippers.  Phichit is left with a prime shot of Viktor Nikiforov, loverboy himself, blushing with a mouth like a round “o”.  He screenshots it, figuring Yuuri will appreciate that later, and then winks at Viktor.

“Don’t you love it when he gets all feisty like that?”

Viktor puts his face in his hands, amusingly enough.  “He just likes to make me blush…”

Phichit cackles a little bit, using his foot to fulfill his solemn best friend duty of turning the big speaker on.  It’s one of those box-like ones that just sits on the floor being loud, and since Yuuri’s phone is occupied, he pulls out his own to scroll through his music library.  He has plenty of Yuuri’s dance songs on here.

“Hey, what kind of music do you want?”

Yuuri, who is twisting and folding himself up like a pretzel in the name of stretches, looks up.  “Um… I’m feeling kind of dramatic, I think.  Can you give me the finale of Firebird?”

Phichit tosses one of the phones up to free a hand, flashes Yuuri a quick thumbs-up, and catches it easily.  “You got it!”

“Was that the ceiling?” Viktor wants to know.

Phichit shrugs.  “Probably.”

He waits until Yuuri finishes his pretzel stretches and nods at him before he presses play, and the soft opening [strains](https://youtu.be/erOEatu5aH8?t=5s) of the finale begin to play in the room.  Slipping his own phone back into his pocket, he angles Yuuri’s to give loverboy a good view of the dance, leaning back against the wall to watch himself.  He loves that Yuuri dances in front of him like he does when he’s alone, comfortable enough in his presence that he doesn’t care about being seen anymore.

As the music builds, Yuuri leaps, landing gracefully and pirouetting with an easy sense of grace.  He knows this piece well; Phichit has seen him dance to it and choreograph little routines for himself many times over the years.  It’s one of Yuuri’s favorites for its sense of triumph and confidence and drama, and he can already see that dancing to it is helping Yuuri calm himself down, moving with grace and familiarity.

Man.  Watching Yuuri dance like this feels like coming home in ways he can hardly describe.  He’s not really a words guy, anyway—actions always have been his forte.  Especially the stabby kind.

Viktor gasps and coos and sighs in all the right places, clearly enthralled.  Phichit can’t help but grin at the look on his face when Yuuri poses on one of the slow crescendos, dragging himself up as if lifting a great burden before leaping daintily across the floor on the quick, triumphant trumpet melody after.  God _damn,_ Viktor has it bad for his best friend.  He’s besotted.

Phichit screenshots his face then, too.  Yuuri will probably also appreciate seeing the way Viktor looks at him when he can’t see him.

“Phichit,” Viktor whispers as Yuuri raises his arms and twirls and twirls again.  “Phichit, I am gay.  He’s so beautiful.  Oh my god.  I am gay.”

“Really?”  Phichit has to hold back another cackle as he whispers back, not wanting to distract Yuuri.  “I had no idea.  Did you tell Yuuri yet?  I’m sure he’ll be very supportive.”

“Shut _up,_ ” Viktor whines. “He’s so _beautiful,_ I can’t handle this, how is he so beautiful?”

Phichit can’t completely avoid a chuckle there, but he does his best to keep it quiet.  Yuuri has completely lost himself in the music, leaning into a deep stretch that makes him look like he’s being held back by an invisible partner before he “breaks free” from that hold and twirls away, grace embodied.  He’s so _proud_ of his best friend.  Yuuri is beautiful, he’s fucking gorgeous, and he’s making other people see it, too.

Also, he’s happy Viktor sees it.  Yuuri absolutely deserves someone who appreciates his beauty and his grace and would thank him if he stepped on their face.

“I don’t know, my guy, but he is, and he’s perfect, huh?”

Viktor lets out a long, dreamy sigh.  “He is…”

As the music draws to a close, Yuuri twirls and leaps again, taking a few final, emphatic steps and slowly dragging his body to a seemingly difficult final pose, letting it “breathe” on the last triumphant swell.

Rika immediately bursts into applause, before Viktor even.  Her face is lit up with a bright smile, a little flushed with awe.  “That was amazing!  I knew you could dance but I never realized you kept up with ballet like that, that was so beautiful!  Wow!  Yuuri!”

Awww.  It’s cute to see her come out of her shell with enthusiasm like that.

Viktor also bursts into applause, cheering.  “Yuuri!  Yuuri, I love you so much, you are so beautiful and I love you and you’re wonderful!  Did you know you’re beautiful and I’m gay?  Yuuri!  I love you!”

“Hey, dude, that might be a little gay, just warning you,” Phichit teases.

Yuuri looks a little flustered now as he takes a bow and skips back over to them, face pink from both exertion and bashfulness.  “It was alright, I mean, it was still just a warmup run I guess, you know?  I haven’t danced it in a while—ow!”

Phichit whaps him upside the head playfully once more just for emphasis.  “Shut up and take the damn compliment, you modest dumpster fire.”

“ _Modest dumpster fire?”_  Yuuri huffs.  “I _know_ I’m a good dancer, you—you—um.  You shadowfucker.  I just also know when I could have done _better,_ okay?”

Phichit actually cackles again, immediately pulling out his phone to text Amir.  “Shadowfucker!  That’s great, oh my god.  I wonder if he’s gonna answer to that.”

“Modest dumpster fire,” Viktor echoes thoughtfully.  “Sweetheart, if you’re ever being self-depreciating, can I call you that too?”

Yuuri opens his mouth, closes it, and then favors Phichit with a dirty look.  Phichit winks and offers him a very broad, very bright grin, and Yuuri sighs.  “Frankly, I would prefer if you would do what you already do and call me cute things like ‘sweetheart’ and ‘sunflower’, because you’re cute, but if you _really_ want to…”

Viktor gasps, putting his hands to his cheeks.  “You said I’m cute!”

Yuuri favors him with the look now.  “I know for a _fact_ I’ve told you that before, silly.  You’re very cute.”

“Hey, Viktor,” Phichit whispers loudly.  “I think Yuuri might be gay, too.”

Rika giggles as Yuuri groans very loudly.  “Phichit Chulanont, I swear to god.”

“Are you going to dance more?”  Viktor puts his hands down, but the enchanted look has yet to leave his eyes.  Yuuri melts a little as it’s directed at him, because of course he does, the big softie, and hums in thought.

“I could!  What other songs do I have, um…”

“There’s ‘Carmen Fantasie’ next on this playlist,” Phichit suggests.  “If you wanna do that one.  Spicy, Yuuri.  Spicy like that time a few days back when—”

“Oh my _god,_ are you never going to let me hear the end of that, that wasn’t even my doing, that was all _this_ man!”

“What did I do?”

“You kissed me in front of everyone and then I had to deal with Phichit teasing me the entire way back to Hinomoto!”  Yuuri throws his hands in the air, Rika giggles again, and Phichit grins unrepentantly.  Viktor blinks innocently at the camera, and Phichit decides (again) that he likes this dude.

“Aww, Yuuri,” he croons.  “Darling, was I supposed to see you off _without_ a goodbye kiss?”

“Well, no,” Yuuri huffs, “but—hey, stop teasing me, I know where you’re ticklish.”

“Don’t you dare,” Viktor says immediately, hands covering his sides.  Phichit makes a mental note in case he ever has the opportunity to use this information.  Not that he thinks he particularly will, but it’s better to know than not, right…?

“You can’t just ask me not to tease,” Viktor sighs dramatically.  “I love how cute you are when you pout at me, and then I have excuses to kiss you.”

“You don’t need excuses to kiss me,” Yuuri snorts.  “I _like_ when you kiss me, so you can just do it whenever.”

Viktor grins like the cat with the cream.  “Oh, good!  So just like I did, then.”

Yuuri gapes at him for a moment, Phichit wheezes with the effort of holding back a hoot of laughter, and this time Rika is there waiting when he lifts his hand for an automatic high five.

“This is bullying,” Yuuri finally says, even though he’s clearly trying not to laugh himself.  “Put on some Tchaikovsky or something, Phichit, I’m going back to the dance floor away from all of you bullies.”

“Oh, goody,” Viktor beams, clearly delighted.  “Have I ever mentioned I love watching you dance?”

Yuuri sighs again, a little dreamy.  “I like dancing with you better than dancing alone.  You should come over sometime.  I wish you could soon.”

Phichit’s finger hovers over the play button, about to press play, but…  Viktor looks contemplative.  “I think I could manage that.”

Yuuri blinks.  “Wait, what?  Really?”

Viktor hums.  “I have an idea.  You’ll just have to wait and find out what I mean, later, though, won’t you?”

Yuuri narrows his eyes.  “Vitya, we have _plans_ and _politics_ to deal with.  What’s this idea of yours?”

Viktor makes a shooing motion with one hand.  “Don’t you worry your pretty little head, dearest.  I’ll let you know when you come see me.  I require at least three kisses before I can tell you.”

Yuuri sighs.  “You’re being stubborn again, aren’t you?”

Viktor grins wordlessly.  Yuuri shakes his head at him, amused and fond, and glances at Phichit, who presses _play_ on the next song.  Yuuri skips back off to the center of the room, and Viktor is left waving excitedly at Phichit right before he switches the camera back to Yuuri.

“Don’t tell him,” he whispers, barely audible over the speakers and music, “but I’m going to propose when you get here on the weekend.  Do you think you could bring a few things…?”

“Text me all the details,” Phichit says immediately, and grins.

* * *

 

[17:48] Phichit:  
hey shadowfucker

[17:49] shadowfuckré:  
actually, my wife is a ray of sunshine, so jot that down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thats right amir, you tell him.
> 
> 1\. hello yes i'm two days early! my lovely pal fae pointed out that viknik's bday is coming up and then i decided i could just move my schedule up so that 19 goes up ON the day of our lovely ice prince's birth. (or should i say ice king...)
> 
> 2\. i was floored by all the positivity i received last chapter about acespec yuuri! i was not expecting that response but it warmed my own acespec heart so much to see that it resonated with so many of you. ♥ i'm so happy it did!!!!! 
> 
> 3\. the song that today's chapter is titled from is actually from the score of the return of the king, which i have to give a shoutout to bc the tolkien fandom is and will always be my first home. [check it out](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2ctOMWAZLw4) !!!! :D
> 
> next time: alas, even the best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry.


	19. from the rubble, what do i see

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final pieces move into place, and the avalanche starts.

There’s a few things going [wrong](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pv3VxpKlXiU) here.

First: today is the day Yuri knows they’re going to finally get the court to vote on that atrocious bill.  Mila managed to buy time until the tournament, to make sure that it’d be announced in conjunction with it, but there’s no way she can get it delayed any further without drawing a _lot_ of suspicion onto herself.

Second: As the Crown Prince, he is supposed to be the presiding officer during all court sessions.  If he’s absent, the King himself has to fulfill that duty rather than letting himself speak through Yuri, which is supposed to work normally because the Crown and Heir are _supposed_ to work together, but has been irking Sergei to no end because Yuri keeps encouraging the debates.

Third: He feels like shit.

No, really.  He feels like utter fucking shit, he’s dizzy and probably feverish, he just about blacked out from the effort to make it to the bathroom and brush his fucking teeth, and now he’s panting because he tried to walk back to his bed after that and couldn’t fucking _make it._

Yeah, this is… not great.

A few moments pass in a weird half-conscious blur, during which he just lies on the floor and closes his eyes and drifts.  He doesn’t fully pass out, he’s pretty sure, but he almost falls asleep maybe, and the world seems like it’s spinning and tilting all around him and he’s kind of nauseous and his head is craving pillows but getting up is hard, and…

Yeah.  Yeah, staying here sounds good.

A few more moments pass.  Yuri sighs and rolls one ankle against the carpet, the extent of movement his tired body is willing to allow him, then slowly opens his eyes.

He’s supposed to be getting ready for court.  He’s…

Something is important…

Fuck.

Court.

Fuck!

Okay, oh god, he’s not supposed to be on the floor, why is he so _weak,_ why is everything so hot, why does the room keep spinning, why is—he’s not supposed to be _hot,_ he’s never too hot, heat is his friend, he’s, he’s supposed to…

Weak and dizzy, Yuri drags himself to the nightstand with far more effort and far less dignity than he’d like to admit.  He can’t even stand, crawling most of the way there instead before leaning his head against the cool, carven wood and closing his eyes again, breathing hard.  He wants to get back in bed.  He wants to sleep.

He _needs_ to get dressed and go to court.

What happens instead is that he reaches up to grab his phone, is assailed by a wave of dizziness as he stares at keys and letters and tries to make sense of them, and groans, leaning his head back against the wood with a little _thunk._   He can’t do this.  He’s so tired.  He needs rest.  He’s not okay.  It’s so hot.  He just… god, where’s Viktor when you need some ice…

He’s so tired…

And he feels so shitty…

Surely it’s okay if he just rests here for a little while.

_Take care of yourself, Yura,_ he remembers Viktor saying, vaguely, as cold air flurried around them on a winter’s morning in Elvetia.  _They’ll have some kind of plan to keep you out of the way when they try to pass that bill.  Don’t let them touch you._

Fuck.  He can’t just not go to court just because he’s sick.  How awfully convenient would that be, huh?  He falls horribly ill right on the day of—

Oh.

That _is_ really convenient.

Just as his sluggish, aching mind starts to wonder if maybe he’s been poisoned, the door to his rooms flies open, and he gasps, looking up from where he sits slumped by his bed.  Beka rushes in, his eyes wide, and he drops to Yuri’s side.

“Yura!  What happened?”

Yuri squints at him.  “How’d… you know?”

Beka gives him an incredulous look.  “You… you called me.”

“Oh.”  Yuri blinks, peers down at his phone, and realizes that he sure did seem to have hit the call button.  Weird.  When’d that happen?  Huh.  So he called and then… didn’t say anything.  Whoops.  “Wasn’t my door locked…?”

Beka huffs.  “What’s wrong?  Why are you on the floor?  Isn’t court starting soon?  You _know_ I have a set of lockpicks, why are you—”  He touches a hand to Yuri’s forehead, then swears.  “You’re burning up!  You’re not this hot on purpose, are you?”

Yuri giggles.  “I’m hot shit and you know it.”  Then the rest of Beka’s words register, slowly, like they’re penetrating molasses in his head, and he groans.  “Ah, fuck.  Court.  Fuck.  Beka, I can’t get up, I can’t walk.  Help.”

He really hates asking for help, but at this point he kind of has to, doesn’t he?

Court.  Court starts soon.  He needs to go.  He has to.  He has to go and make his point about that stupid bill clear.  If he denounces the bill and says the throne won’t let it pass, then when Katsudon comes over and watches him hand Sergei his ass at the tournament, they won’t have anything to worry about and Katsudon and Viktor can make their… their… fuck.  What’s the word?

Statements!

Statements.  They can make their statements about the alliance.  To the public.  That’s the whole big idea.  And it depends on Yuri keeping that bill down and then participating in the tournament, but…

Beka’s face has taken on a grim look, his brows set and mouth downturned. “You can’t get up?”

“Yeah, can’t you hear?”  Yuri groans again, lifts his head, and is once again slapped in the fucking brain with dizziness.  “Fucking _hell._   God.”

“Okay.”  Beka reaches for him, wraps an arm under his shoulders, and helps him to his feet.  Then, to Yuri’s surprise, instead of helping him over to the closet, he lays him down in bed again.

“Hey, the hell are you doing?” Yuri slurs at him, while he lays a hand on his forehead and frowns.  “I have to get _ready,_ Beka!  Court shit…”

“A delirious crown prince will be no help to anyone, Yura.”  Beka looks weirdly calm _and_ stoic at the same time.  Calmtoic?  No, stalm works better.  Calmtoic doesn’t flow off the tongue as well.  Hah.  Stalm.

Wait.  Calm and stoic mean the same thing, basically.  He meant to say stoic and _worried._   Beka is… uh… storried.

“Your face is worroic,” Yuri tells him, waving a weak hand at his arm as if that’ll make him stop holding his hand to his face so Yuri can get up.  Fuck that hand, honestly, pinning him to the bed by his forehead…

Beka blinks, confused.  “Worroic?”

“Yeah.”  Yuri puffs out his cheeks in annoyance.  “Lemme up, Beka, I gotta… go to court.  Deal with those dickwads.  Yeah, dickwads.  Gotta tell them to fuck off.  Did you know Sergei is ugly as a butt?”

“You’re feverish, Yura, and you’re babbling.”  Beka pinches the bridge of his nose.  “Did you eat something bad last night?  You seemed fine yesterday.”

Yuri smacks his forearm, ineffective as it is.  “I ate food.  Get _up,_ I gotta gooooo!”

“Wait.”  Alarm overtakes Beka’s face, fast as lightning.  Haha, lightning… a little bit frightening… something something… -itning… fuck, he doesn’t know the words.  “Last night at the ceremonial dinner.  We didn’t have any clue about the preparation of that food.  Did you eat—no, everyone was served from the same dishes.  It might have been in your glass.  Why didn’t I think to check for that—oh, my god.”

“What’re you going on about?” Yuri huffs.  “I gotta go or I’ll fall asleep.  Lemme up or else I’ll miss it.  …Where am I going again?  Fuck!  Right.  Court.  Beka.  Beka, Viktor needs me to go, I have to go…”

“Not if you were _poisoned,_ ” Beka says tersely, phone already in hand.  Yuri squints at him, but stays quiet, because stubborn Bekas, when they’re all worroic and storried and shit, apparently don’t listen to him at _all._

“You suck,” Yuri mumbles, closing his eyes.  God, his head is killing him.  Can’t Beka let him go get this done with so he can come back and go to sleep already?

“Prince Katsuki?” he hears Beka say as he rolls onto his side, sighing.  “We have a problem.  I think Yura has been poisoned, and this time I don’t know which poison it might be—all I can tell is that he’s delirious and has symptoms like that of a bad fever, and…”

Beka is talking about unrelated, unimportant shit.  Yuri sighs again, pulls the blanket up to his chin, and figures he can just rest his eyes a little bit before worrying about anything else.  Court is a big deal, and takes a _lot_ of worrying, after all, and he only has so much space in his brain for it.  His head is so fucking dizzy and off in space that he figures he _needs_ the eye-rest anyway, so like… resting is a good idea.  He deserves this.

He wakes up, groggy and disoriented, to find that the sunlight in the room is pouring in from the windows.  They face west.  The sun only comes in like this in the afternoon.

Immediately, dread spikes through him like a stab, and he cries out as he rockets upright.  His head comes with him a second later, nausea and pain and dizziness slamming into him with the force of a freight train, and he squeezes his eyes shut with a gasp, clutching at his head.

“Yura!”

It’s Beka’s voice, and a second later there are Beka’s hands, resting on his shoulders and giving him support.  He gasps for breath and swallows hard to keep himself from screaming in frustration, then looks up, panicking.

“It’s _afternoon._ I was—Beka, I missed court—how could—fuck, _fuck,_ I had to be there, they were counting—oh my god, how could you let me sleep in—I missed it!  Viktor and Katsudon were counting on me to—”

“Slow down.  Slow down.  It’s alright.”  Beka pets his hair placatingly, his touch just heavy enough to be soothing to the spikes of pain drilling their way into Yuri’s head.  “Breathe.  I need you to take deep breaths.  I’m glad you woke up, I was going to have to get you up in three minutes anyway.  Come on.  Deep breaths, Yura.”

Yuri takes in one deep breath, then lets it out in an angry, helpless wail of “I missed court!” 

“Yeah.”  Beka pets his head some more.  Yuri hates how fucking soothing it is when his mind is a mess of jumbled horror and shock and anxiety and just like, shitty, bad emotions in general.  Shanxietorror.  Fuck, that’s an awful word.  Fuck him, fuck, he missed court.  They _needed_ himi to be there, and, and, and he missed it!  “I’m pretty sure you were poisoned at this point, Yura.”

“That’s—that’s no excuse!”

“That’s plenty of excuse,” Beka says mildly.  Yuri slumps against him, tears pricking at his eyes.  “Listen to me.  I spoke to Prince Katsuki about your condition, and he agreed with me that he will still come visit you.  He’s concerned about your health, Yura, so in the interests of that, we’re going to go to your family estate and meet him there.  That way you’ll have time to recover from this.”

“You fixed me last time,” Yuri says raggedly, swallowing that hard lump in his throat.  “C-can’t you fix me this time?”

Poisoned.  He was poisoned, _again._ Is that why his head feels awful and won’t stay on right, and every time he moves it’s like the entire world flip-flops in his stomach and tries to kill him?  Fuck.  Last time he thought—no, he _knew_ he was going to die.  He doesn’t think he’s processed that yet.  Everything just kept _happening_ and he just, he just stuffed it away to deal with later, but… but…

Again.

“It’s not fatal this time,” Beka says immediately, as if he knows what Yuri is thinking of.  He probably does.  He was there last time.  “It’s okay.  Shhh.  I wish I could, but—last time it was a lucky guess that saved you, Yura.  There’s only a handful of poisons that can kill like that, and we’re just lucky that I know that some are used in anesthesia.  It was a lucky guess.  But the number that can just make you sick… there’s too many.  I don’t know which one it might be.  It might be a mixture.  I don’t know.”

Yuri groans and flops back down to the pillows.  He can’t believe this is happening.  “Can’t you just … try shit until it works?”

Beka sighs.  “You know blood magic takes energy from the subject.”

Yuri reaches for him, grabs his wrist, and drags his hand back to his hair pointedly, hoping he gets the message.  His head still _hurts._   “…What did Katsudon say?”

“He said that it’s most important to make sure that you’re safe and able to recover well, and that you shouldn’t worry about anything for now.  Just rest and leave it to him.”

That’s awfully cryptic, but Yuri supposes, even in his foggy state, that they probably shouldn’t say anything specific about having plans for the day of the tournament.  Katsudon probably spoke to Viktor about this.  Ugh.  Fuck.  Katsudon’s supposed to come here, soon, too.  Are they gonna poison him as well?

Wait.

Yuri’s eyes open.  “Wait.  Family estate?”

Beka simply nods, just once.  “Your grandfather sent a car to pick you up, and has released a statement saying that you’re quite ill and will be returning to the estate so you can avoid all the excitement in the city and recover in peace.  It’ll be here in about half an hour.  Do you think you can stand and get dressed?”

Heart sinking in his chest even as it swells at the thought of seeing Grandpa again after all this, Yuri groans.  He presses his head into Beka’s massaging hands and casts an arm over his face.  “Fuck.  I have to, don’t I?”

“Well, technically, you don’t _have_ to,” Beka muses.  Even though Yuri can’t see him, he _knows_ there’s gonna be that infuriating little twinkle of amusement in his eyes.  “But I don’t think you’d prefer to have me throw you over my shoulder in your pajamas and walk out the door.”

Yuri moves his arm a little in order to give his stupid best friend a deadpan glare.  “Fuck you, Beka.”

“Hmm, that’s what I thought you’d say.”

Slowly, Yuri manages to drag himself out of the blankets, sitting up on the edge of the bed with another groan.  Beka waits patiently, offering an arm to steady him if needed, and as expected he ignores it to stand on his own.  Beka looks vaguely amused at that, but says nothing, and Yuri hauls his own sorry ass over to his closet.

It strikes him that Beka must have been sitting around all afternoon, looking after him while he slept off this suspiciously well-timed “sickness”, and communicating with Katsudon and Viktor about how their plans would have to change because of it.  Stupid, he should’ve known better than to let his guard down at a ceremonial dinner.  And he _was_ careful only to eat from the serving dishes he saw other people take food from first, but he didn’t remember the damned drinks, like Beka said earlier…

Ugh.  His thoughts still feel woozy.  Maybe he should’ve just swapped his glass with Ivanovich’s, like people do in cartoons.  Wouldn’t _that_ have made for a good story?

He pulls on the simplest, most comfortable of his court-style suits, not wanting to look like a complete mess for the walk down to the car Grandpa sent.  Hopefully, the rich, traditional Ruthenian embroidery will distract from his exhausted, pale face.

God.  He’s too tired to deal with his tangled mess of bedhead.  But appearances are important in the world of politics, and even though he is ill, he can’t afford to look _weak._   People will talk.  Hell, people are probably already talking about how weak he must be, needing to take time off just because he fell sick right before the tournament.

The _tournament._ If he has to withdraw because of this damn poison, he’ll… he’ll—

He doesn’t want to think about that, actually.

(He’s afraid he already knows what the conclusion of that thought would be.)

“Yura?”

He looks up from the comb sitting useless in his hands and sees Beka hovering in the doorway, fretting again.  Serious, but fretting.  God, what was going through his mind earlier when he was staring at that face and thinking _storried_ and _worroic?_   He remembers his delirium decently, and holy shit does he wish he did not.  That’s so fucking stupid and embarrassing…

“Yeah?”

“Are you ready…?”

Yuri sighs, rakes the comb through his hair, and then yelps when pain explodes in his head as it snags on a tangle and yanks his head to the side.  The sudden movement leaves him dizzy again, and he has to grab the countertop to steady himself.  Holy _shit,_ is he pathetic.

“I’m gonna fucking cut all of my hair off,” he mutters, staring at his white-knuckled hands as his vision slowly clears.  There are still spots dancing in front of his eyes.  He wants no part of this.  This entire thing is just bullshit and stupid and he should’ve avoided it.

“Let me,” Beka murmurs, coming forward.  Yuri stays still, wordlessly passing him the comb, and lets him fix the stupid mess of hair into something presentable enough.  Beka doesn’t braid or style it, even though Yuri knows he knows how (he has a little sister who makes him do her hair all the time!  He’s met the kid!), instead leaving it down around his face, but detangled and straight this time.

“Thanks,” he mutters.

Beka pats his shoulder.  “No problem.  Let’s go downstairs.  Is there anything you need to bring?”

He has duplicates of just about everything he needs at the estate, so he shakes his head.  The only things he needs to take are his computer and his phone; stuff like clothes, toiletries, and all that shit, he’s already got taken care of.

Beka nods, pleased, and checks the time again.  “Alright.  Let’s go.”

They walk downstairs together, passing some courtiers who are still lingering after the afternoon sessions or for tea or whatever.  Yuri keeps his head high and doesn’t deign to make eye contact with any of them, just stalking past with Beka at his side.  Yeah, he feels like shit, but they don’t get to know that.

“I hope you feel better soon, Prince Plisetsky!” Lady Ryabova calls, and he stops.  She’s walking by with Mila, who gives him a quick look of concern.

Yuri ignores her, as he figures he should if he’s trying to not blow her cover.  The cold shoulder is what he’d do if an ally of his abandoned him, right?

“Thank you,” he says stiffly, addressing only Lady Ryabova.  “I appreciate your concern for my well-being, my lady.”

Lady Ryabova smiles, oddly sincere for once.  There’s a touch of condescension there, though, and Yuri bristles internally, though he’s careful to keep it hidden like he’s trained to.  She must still think he’s just a little kid.  He’s _more_ than that, dammit.  They’ll see soon.  The tournament will get here and they’ll all see how much they underestimated him, especially Ivanovich and Sergei.

“Of course, Your Highness.”  She curtseys, and next to her Mila follows suit.  Yuri sends her a dirty look, sniffs delicately, and walks onward, letting them pass to wherever they’re going.  Another tea party with some of the ladies of the court, perhaps.  Mila mentioned that apparently she gets dragged to a lot of those.  Sounds awful.

Outside, the car is waiting; the driver steps out to open the door for him, and Beka waits until he’s settled in before getting in on the other side.

“How long is the drive again?” he asks, glancing outside at the late afternoon sky.  Yuri, who knows this commute like the back of his hand, slumps down in his seat, exhausted utterly and completely by their short walk.

“It’s about an hour, if traffic is good.”

“That’s not so bad.”  Beka nods.  Then he looks back down at Yuri, concerned all over again.  “You have some time to lie down and sleep a little more, then.  Get some rest, Yura.  You need it to recover faster.”

“Ugh,” Yuri mutters, but he lays his head on Beka’s shoulder and closes his eyes anyway.

 

* * *

By the time the car sent to get Yuri and Prince Altin arrives, Viktor has managed to work himself up to about two shades from a full blown [panic](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pv3VxpKlXiU).

“He’s fine,” Yuuri’s voice reassures him, again, from the speaker; he can hear the exhaustion in his darling’s every word, but he knows Yuuri isn’t going to be able to sleep until Yuri gets here, and Viktor can confirm what they’ve been telling each other ever since Yuuri got that call from Prince Altin this morning.  “He’s fine, it just made him sick, he’s fine.”

“We were trying to be so careful.”  Viktor grits his teeth for a moment, shaking his head.  “I wanted to keep him _safe,_ but instead…”

“He’s going to be fine, he can just rest and sleep this off, and he’ll be fine,” Yuuri repeats, almost like a mantra.  Viktor’s free hand, the one not holding his phone, finds its way to the ring under his shirt again, thumb rubbing the cool metal as if it can bring him peace of mind.

“He’s going to be fine.”

Yuuri curls up a little tighter on the screen.  His room is dimly lit, and he’s sitting next to Phichit, both of them leaning against each other and sharing a blanket.  Yuuri looks haunted and so tired that Viktor yearns to steal him away, but the distance prevents him from offering physical comfort, and the circumstances clog any words of consolation he might offer in his throat.

“How long until he gets to you, Vitya?”

Viktor glances at the clock again.  “Prince Altin said they left Petersburg almost an hour ago.  They should be here any minute now.”

“Vitya,” a new voice says.  Viktor turns around sharply to see Duke Nikolai Plisetsky, his great-uncle, standing in the doorway, holding two cups of hot tea.  “Sit, child.  You won’t do anyone any good by pacing holes in the floor.”

Well, clearly he’s being spoken to as an errant great-nephew, not the King of Ruthenia, and errant great-nephews really have no room to argue with Uncle Kolya.  Viktor sighs and does as he’s been told, collapsing into a stuffed couch in a jumble of stress and tension.  He accepts the teacup and saucer that his great-uncle passes him, sitting up more properly as Nikolai joins him on the sofa, and angles the phone so Yuuri and Phichit can see both of them.

Nikolai nods in greeting, smiling at the two of them.  “Hello, Prince Katsuki, Lord Chulanont.”

“Hello, Your Grace,” Phichit says, Yuuri echoing with a little bob of his head.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, albeit a little early,” Yuuri adds.  “I wish the circumstances were more pleasant.”

“Yura will be fine.”  Nikolai folds his hands in his lap and leans back, nodding.  “He’s a strong boy.  You two, stop your fretting.  I believe what he and Prince Altin have said.  And Prince Altin may not be able to stop the poison entirely, but he certainly can look after our Yura.  There is no need for all this worry.”

“Uncle Kolya,” Viktor mutters, staring at the flowers on the rug, “I was supposed to keep him safe.  That’s all I wanted to do.  I wanted to keep him safe, and he got hurt, _again._ ”

“He got hurt, but it wasn’t your responsibility or your fault.”  Nikolai raps him on the crown, and Viktor ducks his head, feeling more like a child than he has in _ages._ “Or were you the one who made sure you were ousted from court for the moment and set up a dangerous coup and everything else that is going on, Viktor?”

“Don’t ask him that,” Yuuri sighs, resting his cheeks in his hands.  “He’s going to say yes.”

Viktor closes his mouth and frowns at the camera.  “Was not.”

Yuuri gives him a very dry look, and Phichit snorts.  “You were.”

“You were,” Nikolai agrees, picking up his tea and sipping on it carefully.  Viktor, mildly betrayed and a little pouty, finds himself boxed in on all sides and just sighs, unable to fold his arms and sulk because of the tea in his hands.  “Your guilt does you credit, Vitya.  You are a noble young man and you want to do right by everyone you love.  But by that same token, you need to accept that the people you love will want to do right by you, as well, and you do not have control over anyone’s actions but your own.”

Yuuri throws up his hands on the screen. “Thank you!  Duke Nikolai, I think we’re going to get along very well.  Please keep telling him things like that.  I need him to never stop hearing them until he believes it.”

“I _know_ I don’t control anyone else’s actions,” Viktor responds, a little tired, a little irritated.  Why are they once again focusing on him when the real issue at hand is that _Yuri got poisoned?_   “But I could have done more.  My actions could have been more effective.  Why does it matter if I blame myself or someone else?  What happened has happened.  What matters now is the present and the future, and _Yura,_ who is still a _child,_ was just attacked again and we’re just sitting here not knowing how he’s doing or—”

“He’s _fine,_ ” Yuuri cuts in.  “He’s sick, but he’s going to be okay.  Vitya, please.  Think about it logically.  He has to recover well enough.  If there’s lasting damage, from something timed so suspiciously to keep him out of court on an important date when the tournament is right here, too, people _will_ talk.  He has so much potential, there’s no way they won’t, not when there’s so many expectations of what he’ll become.  You _know_ he’s going to be fine.  They wouldn’t pick a poison so concentrated or so toxic that it wouldn’t just make him seem ill for a few days.”

Viktor scowls.  “I _know_ that, darling, but the fact still remains that it _happened!”_

“What happened has happened,” Nikolai says, parroting his own words back to him.  Viktor huffs in annoyance, but then his great-uncle lays a hand on his shoulder, and the irritation melts away.  Nikolai has been taking care of him since he arrived, even held him and let him cry about Mama.  She was his niece.  He misses her too.  “What matters now, Vitya, is that we will take care of Yura, and we will take care of that coup, as well.”

There’s a harder edge under his voice, one made of cool steel.  Nikolai Plisetsky has no love for those who murdered his niece and poisoned his grandson.

“Yeah,” Viktor sighs, closing his eyes for a moment.  “I’m just—I can’t help worrying about him.  He’s so young to be mixed up in all this… God, I just wanted to protect him.”

“Oh, Vitya,” Yuuri sighs.

“He’s young, but he still has agency,” Phichit points out.  “I was younger than he is now when I started training with the shadow guilds.  He’s old enough and mature enough to make his own choices, Viktor, whether or not you wanna protect him or not.  I’m not saying we shouldn’t try to protect him, but… he’s got just as much of a stake in all this as the rest of us.”

“He’s a child,” Viktor says hollowly.

Phichit nods in agreement.  “So was I.”

Yuuri gives Phichit an appraising look, one that’s too small and pixellated for Viktor to really see what else might be in his face.  Then he pulls Phichit into a hug and murmurs something the microphone doesn’t quite catch, and Phichit smiles and murmurs something back before they pull apart again, and Phichit shrugs.

“All I’m saying is that circumstances don’t let you shelter him like that anymore.”  There’s a twinge of wistfulness in his dark eyes, even though he’s still smiling.  “So stop beating yourself up for that.  It’s out of any of our control.”

Before Viktor can respond, there’s a loud _buzz_ from Nikolai’s phone, and he immediately stands.  Viktor looks up at him questioningly, hopefully.

His great-uncle nods.  “They’re here.”

Viktor rockets to his feet, downs the rest of his tea in a gulp that scalds his throat a little, and races out the door, taking the steps two at a time as he hurries down toward the front hall.  He only slows when he nears the entryway, knowing that he doesn’t want to be seen by any errant paparazzi that may have been persistent enough to follow the sick Crown Prince all the way home, and waits until he hears the door close.

_Thud._

Viktor hurries into the foyer, unheeding of propriety, and runs to his cousin.  Yuri is unsteady on his feet, wrapped in a thick coat and still wearing his hat and boots, but Viktor couldn’t care less.  He wraps his arms around the boy and hugs him tight, and unlike the last time they saw each other, this time Yuri just clings to him immediately.

“Hi, dipshit.  Let go, will you?  I can’t fucking breathe.”

Viktor lets out a deep, deep sigh of relief as he withdraws, hands on Yuri’s shoulders.  “Oh, thank god, you’re alright.”

Prince Altin lets out a cough that sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

Yuri punches both of them in the arm, lighter than usual, and then sways on his feet, paler than usual.  “I hate both of you.  Out of my way, I wanna lie down.”

“Yurochka!”

Nikolai has made it downstairs as well, a little slower than Viktor, who keeps his arm around Yuri for all of about half a second longer, because Yuri dumps him in order to fling himself into Nikolai’s arms with a cry.

“Grandpa!”

“So much for lying down,” Viktor murmurs to Prince Altin, relief flowing through him so palpably that _he_ almost needs to lie down.  Yuri is okay.  Yuri is okay, and he’s here, and he’s well enough to be grumpy.  Grumpy is good.  Grumpy is _wonderful._   He’d be terrified if Yuri was sad, or scared, or helpless.

Prince Altin quirks a small smile at him.  “Did you expect anything else?”

Viktor, amused, shakes his head.  The only thing he might have expected would have been Yuri knocking his grandfather over with a flying tackle, but he supposes if the boy is unwell that’s a bit of a high expectation for him right now.  This is as close as he gets.

A few steps away, Nikolai has taken off the cap and is ruffling Yuri’s hair, while Yuri clings to him and smiles far too cheerfully.  “Yurochka, I’m glad you made it home.  Do you want to rest?  Are you hungry?  I have pirozhki almost ready, if you want to eat, but we can wait and let you sleep more if you need.”

“I slept all day,” Yuri whines.  “I’m _starving._   Lemme at the pirozhki, Grandpa, I’m so hungry!”

“I’m glad he can still be enthusiastic,” Viktor murmurs to himself.  He just looks, well… sick.  Not dying, not horribly poisoned, just sick.  As Nikolai wraps an arm around his shoulders and leads him to the nearest sitting room, Viktor trails after with Prince Altin.  “He’s improved since morning, hasn’t he?”

Prince Altin nods.  “After I called Prince Katsuki, he slept a lot more.  He’s much less delirious than he was earlier, and a little steadier on his feet.  He slept most of the way here, too.”

“But still kind of shaky,” Viktor observes, a finger tapping his lips thoughtfully.  “Depending on how long it takes him to recover from this, he may not be able to win the tournament.  Or even participate, to be frank.”

Prince Altin frowns.  “He won’t want to withdraw.”

Viktor sighs, raking a hand through his hair as they enter the sitting room, lingering in the doorway.  “I know.  But if the alternative is getting him hurt for no reason… I’d rather he hate me for making him sit out this year.”

If Yuri doesn’t win the tournament, then his entry won’t matter, not to their grand plan overall.  Only the champion gets to challenge last year’s winner, which would be Viktor—but of course, Sergei would have to pretend to be him, and Viktor is confident that Yuri could handle him.  Sergei being defeated after Viktor’s five-year winning streak would damage his credibility, and when accepting the trophy, Yuri is supposed to denounce him as real before Viktor himself comes out.

But if Yuri can’t win the tournament…

“We’ll have to think about it,” Viktor says firmly, and closes the door.

* * *

Yuuri is sleepy and groggy and all-around _tired_ when his sky-carriage lands in Ruthenia.  It’s a little odd to be at the Plisetsky Estate rather than the familiar Petersburg Palace, but circumstances, he supposes, have changed.  Poor Yura is ill, Yuuri can’t be in Petersburg until the actual day of the tournament, and Mila is alone until then.

So here he is, now that they’ve landed at the Plisetskys’ private skyport instead of the palace one.  It’s secluded, in the middle of the estate grounds, much more isolated than Petersburg Palace’s grand one, and the air feels very still now that they’ve settled.

But Yuuri, for his part, is fine with this particular change.  It means he gets to see not only Yuri, but also—

“Vitya!”

He flings himself forward, some of the weariness falling from his shoulders and transforming into quiet desperation as he leaves Phichit and Rika and his luggage behind to bury himself in Viktor’s waiting [arms](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DqZIWwxrvck).  It’s late at night, and the stars glimmer overhead, far more visible out here than in the city.  Viktor hugs him fiercely, bathed in their light.

Yuuri sinks against him, trembling slightly, and presses his face into Viktor’s shoulder, closing his eyes.  “How is he?”

“He’s doing fine, my love,” Viktor murmurs, voice low and gentle and sweet.  Yuuri could drown in the richness of that sound, the way it coils in his chest like warm honey.  “He’s asleep, or he’d be here to greet you, too.  Uncle is inside; the cold makes his back hurt more, but he’s waiting to meet you.  How was the trip?”

“Fine.”  Yuuri forces himself to unclench his hands, letting go of the fistfuls of Viktor’s coat that he’s been clutching and smoothing them out against Viktor’s back.  “I… it was uneventful.  I slept most of the way.  How are you?”

“I’m alright.”  Viktor rubs his back, pressing him a little closer for a moment, then gently withdraws, wrapping his arm around Yuuri’s waist as he raises an arm to greet Phichit and Rika, too.  “Welcome to the Plisetsky Estate.  You can leave the bags, if you like; my uncle will have them taken to your rooms.  Would you two care to join us for some tea and a light snack before bed?”

“Sure,” Phichit says.  Rika nods wordlessly, following wherever Yuuri decides to go.

Viktor’s arm stays firmly around Yuuri’s waist as they walk inside, and Yuuri wraps his arm around Viktor’s, too, wanting to stay close to him.  Viktor presses a gentle kiss to his temple when he pauses to hold a door open, Yuuri staying at his side, and Phichit shakes his head teasingly at the two of them as he saunters past.  How he still has any energy whatsoever, Yuuri will never understand.

They end up in a cozy sitting room, with cream-colored walls and red, velvet-upholstered sofas and armchairs arranged around a merrily blazing hearth.  There are paintings of roses and forests on the walls, and the hardwood floor is covered by a red-and-green rug.  All in all, it’s the kind of place where Yuuri could see himself snuggling up and falling asleep.

…Although to be fair, in his current state, he can see that in just about every horizontal surface.

Duke Nikolai Plisetsky is waiting for them there, and there are five teacups on the table, along with a tray of little pastries and finger sandwiches.  He rises when Viktor opens the door, smiling, and Yuuri starts to bow out of habit before he remembers he’s not in Hinomoto, and the customary greeting from a prince to a duke is a deep nod.

But Duke Plisetsky waves that off when he offers it, and Viktor chuckles, low and indulgent.  He wraps his arms around Yuuri from behind, just standing there and holding him while Yuuri stammers out a greeting.

“Ah—good evening, Your Grace, it’s an honor to finally meet you in person, though I apologize that the circumstances are so dire, and—”

“Hush, hush,” Duke Plisetsky says, chortling, and Yuuri stops, blinking in surprise.  “Vitya.  He’s even sweeter than you said.  This boy, I like him.  Prince Katsuki.  Welcome, welcome.  Please, just call me Uncle Kolya.  Now come, come, sit down, all of you!  You must be tired after so much travel.”

“Oh.”  Yuuri blinks again.  Viktor just hums and guides him to one of the chairs, where he plops down and pulls Yuuri down to sit between his legs.  Yuuri gladly leans back into his chest, sighing deeply as Viktor’s arms wrap snugly around his waist again, and Viktor rests his chin on his shoulder.

“Even sweeter than Viktor said?”  Phichit looks impressed.  “Man, and here I thought Viktor spent all his time sweet-talking about our best boy here.”

“He _is_ the best,” Viktor hums from Yuuri’s shoulder, “but no amount of compliments from me could _possibly_ capture just how sweet and lovely and perfect he is.  See, even there I didn’t say delightful, funny, kind, brilliant, loving, or—”

“Vitya,” Yuuri murmurs, blushing.  He reaches up to stroke Viktor’s cheek and then to scrunch his fingers through his hair, though, and Viktor hums again, content and cozy.  Yuuri likes having him this close.  He’s warm and holds on so tightly and comfortingly, and having his mental presence right _there,_ exuding love and tenderness like this, is balm to a wound Yuuri hardly even knew he was feeling.

Duke Pliset—that is, um, Uncle Kolya—asks them a few quiet questions about their travel and how Hinomoto is doing, while Yuuri dozes a little in Viktor’s arms.  He sips at his tea, a charming pomegranate white blend, and snuggles back against Viktor’s chest, knowing he ought to have more propriety but really, really wanting to turn around, tuck his legs up across Viktor’s lap, and fall asleep.

The topic, however, quickly moves to Yuri’s condition, and Yuuri is forced to wake up a little by the spike in concern and thoughtfulness from Viktor’s mind.

“He’ll be alright,” Uncle Kolya assures, and Yuuri nods.  He knows, but he’s still a little fretful; they all are, frankly.  Rika lets out a sigh of relief, and Phichit offers Yuuri a smile.

“I don’t think he should fight in the tournament.”

Viktor’s words fall like stones.  Yuuri stills in his arms.  Phichit sits up straighter, and Rika shifts in her seat, eyes widening slightly.

Yuuri touches Viktor’s hand gently, trying to make his sluggish mind work fast enough for this conversation.  “But if he doesn’t… what are we going to do?”

“I’ve been thinking about that since yesterday,” Viktor answers, patting Yuuri’s stomach.  There’s an undercurrent of warm amusement in his mind, as if he can see how sleepy Yuuri is and it makes him smile, and Yuuri sends him a little nudge of sleepy affection that successfully makes his cheeks go pink.  He drops his voice to a low murmur and interjects, “Hey, you.  Stop being so cute.”

He presses a quick peck to Yuuri’s cheek, and Yuuri giggles.

“Anyway.  I’ve been thinking about it, and I think it might be a little riskier if we don’t have him in there to back me up, but for his safety I’d rather not make him fight while he’s still recovering from this.”

“That’s probably just what Ivanovich and them all want,” Phichit warns, snagging another sandwich from the platter.  Rika nibbles at a miniature apple tart and says nothing.  “Him to sit out, I mean.”

“Well, if the options are either him sitting out or him getting hurt, I’d rather he withdraw,” Viktor says, a little stiffly.  Yuuri pets his cheek again, and he sighs.  “You know the final rule.  After the champion fights last year’s winner, the victor of that fight can be challenged by anyone in the arena.”

Clarity suddenly flashes through Yuuri’s mind, and he straightens.  “You’re planning to challenge, aren’t you?”

Viktor nods.

“Vitya, that’s so dangerous!  What if they declare you an unlawful fake right there?  What if they try to arrest you before they hear you out?  You know as soon as they see you they’re going to want to recapture you so they can keep up their façade, and I’ll be _damned_ if I let that happen—”

“It’s not going to happen, Yuuri,” Phichit interrupts, very calm and measured.  There’s a dangerous glint in his eyes, shining like the dark side of the moon.  “If they try to play foul, that’s what we’re here for.”

Yuuri hesitates, wringing his hands in his lap.  Viktor takes both of them, presses them down, and lays his hands on top of them.

“You don’t need to worry so much, Prince Katsuki,” Duke— _Uncle Kolya_ says.  Should Yuuri _really_ be calling him uncle when he’s not even married into the family (yet?  Is he allowed to say “yet” when he isn’t engaged to Viktor right now?  He’s not sure…)?  “Vitya can handle himself.  Especially in a duel.”

Yuuri ducks his head, a little ashamed for his panicked outburst.  Hasn’t he been the one telling Viktor to have more faith in himself?  Didn’t Viktor already say he doesn’t want to be treated as weak?  “I—I know.  I just—I worry.  I don’t want him… I don’t want you getting hurt, Vitya.”

“I know.”  Viktor kisses his cheek again.  “Thank you, my darling.  I appreciate your concern.  Putting it aside for a moment, though, do you see where I’m going with this plan?”

Yuuri bites his lip.  Viktor lets go of one of his hands to cup his chin and squeeze gently, squishing his face a little.

“Don’t bite.  You have chapstick, don’t you?  Your lips are always so chapped.”

Yuuri ducks his head again, this time blushing not from shame but from mild embarrassment.  “I… yeah, I do.  I just… I see where you’re going, and… I mean… if you think you would have to challenge Sergei, that probably would work…”

“There,” Viktor says, satisfied.  “Alright.  I’m glad we’re on the same page, sweet pea.  Now, perhaps it’s time we all went to bed?  Surely the technical aspects of our new plan can wait until tomorrow.  We have a few days until the tournament.”

“Yes,” Uncle Kolya agrees.  “Yes, you need sleep.  I am glad you enjoyed the snacks and tea.  Now please, rest.  Your rooms are all near each other; Vitya can show you.”

Viktor’s arm settles around Yuuri’s shoulders, a familiar and comforting weight as they file out of the room and down a long, red-carpeted hallway.  The Plisetsky Estate is old, but not as old as the palace buildings; it seems much more organized and the layout is far less mazelike.  Yuuri, sleepy as he is, decides he’s a fan.

Rika’s room is next to Viktor’s suite, and Phichit’s is across the hall.  Viktor points them both to their rooms, lets them know that the staff should have already brought their luggage up, and then leads Yuuri into his own.  It takes Yuuri a moment to realize that this isn’t just Viktor’s suite but _both_ of theirs, but as soon as he does, he pulls away from Viktor to find the bed, toss his glasses aside, and flop at it, face down.

Viktor laughs behind him, walking up and sliding his hands up from Yuuri’s legs all the way to his shoulders as he leans forward, the weight of his body pressing Yuuri further into the mattress.

“Yuuri, my sunshine,” he croons, voice low and silky in Yuuri’s ear in a way that sends a shivery little thrill down his spine.  “Come on.  You’ll sleep more comfortably if you get changed.”

Yuuri mumbles something incoherent and muffled, turns his head to the side so he can breathe better, and sighs.  Viktor seems to take this as agreement, because he rolls aside, no longer lying on top of him, and then sits up and stands again.  Yuuri misses his weight and his warmth already.

He sits up, a little wobbly, and takes his glasses, folding them and putting them on the nightstand carefully before he forgets and lies down on them or something.  Viktor looks down at him affectionately, then takes his hands and tugs him up.

“Come on,” he repeats.  “Pajamas, dear heart.”

“Mmgh.”  Yuuri trudges over to his suitcase, opens it, and grabs the first pair of pajamas he sees.  They’re silky and light pink, embroidered with flowers, and they’re very comfy to wear under blankets.  He tosses them on the bed, strips his formalwear, and dumps it on a chair to deal with later.  Viktor is still smiling at him, warm and tender.

“I missed you, Yuuri.”

“Missed you too,” Yuuri mumbles, flapping a hand at him as he pulls his shirt over his head.  “You go get changed too.  Wanna cuddle.”

Laughing, Viktor does so.  Yuuri has to pause in the act of putting his pants on to stare, a little transfixed, as Viktor unbuttons his suit jacket, shrugs it off, and then does the same with his shirt.

He’s…

For crying out loud, Viktor has _not_ stopped being unfairly attractive anytime in the past few days.

Ugh.

Viktor catches him staring then, and actually winks, damn him.  “Like what you see?”

Yuuri’s face flames red, and he squeaks and dives under the covers, pulling the blanket over his head.  “Stop teasing!”

“Me?  Teasing?”

There’s a shift and a little creak from the bed, and then Viktor is straddling him, peeling back the blanket while pinning him down.  Yuuri makes a loud noise of complaint as his blushing face has to see the world again, particularly his shirtless boyfriend, with the chain with Yuuri’s ring on it still around his neck.

“Would I ever tease you?”  Viktor’s voice is all low and husky again, and now he’s leaning down, still smiling, but when he kisses Yuuri, it’s all warm passion and sweet intensity, enough that Yuuri gasps into his mouth and lets out a low little moan. 

They kiss like that, Viktor holding himself up over Yuuri with the blanket between them, but after a few minutes of this Yuuri decides this isn’t enough contact and he wants more.

“Come here,” he says, a little breathless, as he wriggles out from under him.  Viktor shifts to the side to let him, though he keeps one hand on Yuuri’s cheek.  Yuuri flips the blankets aside and tugs at his arm, wanting him to come closer, and Viktor kisses him again.

“Let me get the lights, honey.”

Yuuri whines as he pulls away, hopping off the bed to turn the lights off, but soon the mattress dips again, and then Viktor joins him under the covers, hands finding him in the darkness and pulling him close again.  His arm wraps around Yuuri’s waist, hand splayed across the small of his back, and pulls him in until he’s pressed against Viktor’s chest, breathing in his scent and tangling together with him.

“Hi,” Yuuri whispers breathlessly, Viktor’s lips less than an inch from his own.

A soft chuckle, fond and affectionate.  “Hi.”

Viktor kisses him again, deep and electrifying.  The exhaustion is still dragging him down, pressing him comfortably into the sheets, and Viktor’s body is so blissfully warm against his, and he swears he could be floating in bliss as Viktor kisses him, slowly pressing him into the pillows.

“Vitya,” he sighs when Viktor pulls back just a little.  He can just barely make out the outlines of Viktor’s form in the moonlight that spills around the curtains, his hair silhouetted by a frame of silver glow.  “Vitya…”

Viktor nuzzles his neck and nips gently at the pulse there, making him gasp as another shiver runs through his body.  That feels good.  That feels … that feels really good.

“My Yuuri,” Viktor murmurs, kissing his collarbone and the hollow at the base of his throat.  Yuuri makes a little noise that’s somewhere between a sigh and a moan, his eyes fluttering closed as his fingers thread themselves through Viktor’s hair.  “Oh, my Yuuri.  My beautiful Yuuri.”

“Come back up here,” Yuuri murmurs. 

He kisses the part in Viktor’s beautiful, silky hair and nuzzles his face into it, and Viktor hums appreciatively as his lips keep teasing at the pulse in Yuuri’s neck and his collarbone and the sensitive little spot where his neck meets his shoulder.  He feels warm and heavy and content, and at least for just this moment, the worries fall from his mind.

“Come back up,” he repeats, gently tugging at Viktor’s shoulders.  “I wanna kiss you more.”

Viktor trails his kisses up obediently, going from Yuuri’s shoulders to his neck to his jaw, and then back to his lips.  “I love you, Yuuri,” he murmurs, and Yuuri’s hand in his hair pulls him back down into a firm kiss.

“I love you too,” he breathes into Viktor’s mouth, sighing contentedly as they pull apart only to go back in for another kiss.  “Mmm…”

“I missed you.”  Viktor’s legs tangle with his, and Yuuri happily snuggles a little closer until they’re chest-to-chest, almost heart against heart.  When Viktor’s fingers trace the curve of his jaw, he lets out another little sigh, leaning in to kiss him again.

“Missed you too.  Mm.  A lot.”

Viktor chuckles softly, thumb stroking his cheek all soft and tender.  “You’re so beautiful.”

Yuuri’s fingers find his ring, warm from being pressed between their bodies, on its chain around Viktor’s neck.  He rubs his thumb over it and smiles, and Viktor kisses him again, softer this time.

“One of these days,” he murmurs, “when we don’t have things to worry about in the morning, and when we have time for just me and you…”

Yuuri hums, listening, and closes his eyes again.

“I want to let you lie back,” Viktor continues, caressing his cheek. “And I want to kiss every last beautiful inch of you, and I want to hold you and give you a nice massage and tell you I love you for every kiss I give you, and I want to make you feel good.  Good,” a kiss, “and loved,” another kiss, more lingering, “and pampered.  Can I do that sometime, darling?”

Oh.  Oh, god, that sounds good.  Yuuri loses himself in a daydream for a moment, thinking about having some time with just the two of them and no pressing, heavy obligations dangling above them.  Just him and his Vitya, laughing together and lazing around, hands on each other just like this.  Like a honeymoon, maybe.  A honeymoon, even though they’re not engaged, though… maybe if the negotiations work out again…

“Yuuri?” Viktor prompts, thumb brushing the corner of his lips.

Yuuri wraps his arms around his neck and kisses him again.

“I love you,” he says, forehead pressed to Viktor’s.  “I love you, so much.”

Viktor kisses him back.  “Is that a yes?”

“Mm.”  Yuuri nods, nuzzles his face, and hugs him close, tucking his head into his neck and kissing him there, too.  He’s sleepy and content and cozy and happy.  Vitya, Vitya, Vitya.

“I love you.”  Viktor squeezes him tight, burying his face in his hair.  Yuuri melts in his hold, his limbs all warm and heavy, and lets his hand wander along Viktor’s back, rubbing slow, sleepy circles between his shoulderblades.  Viktor presses several slow kisses into his hair as the minutes drag by, easy and slow. 

Yuuri sighs, content.  Sleep comes easily, and when he wakes, Viktor is still holding him close.

* * *

“Yura!”

Yuuri all but sprints across the room to hug the boy, squeezing tight as soon as Yuri manages to stand up from his blanket nest on the couch.  He can feel exhaustion in Yuri’s aura, a quiet but steady current of _tired-tired-hurt_ running under the surface-level thoughts in his head, and it makes his heart ache.

Yuri, for his part, leans against him and mutters something along the lines of “God, why are you all so fucking clingy,” while laying his head on Yuuri’s shoulder, which does make him smile.

Yuuri pats his back, giving him another squeeze, and then withdraws.  “How are you feeling?” 

Yuri sits back down and pulls his blankets around himself again.  “Sleepy.  Fucked in the head.”

“Fucked in the head?” Yuuri echoes, sitting down next to him.  Yuri lays his head on his shoulder again, closing his eyes, and nods.  Yuuri presses his lips together, willing himself to stay quiet—there’s no way Yuri wants his sympathy—but feeling awful all the same, seeing how pale the boy is and how pronounced the bags under his eyes are.

“I’m still dizzy and Beka says I’m still feverish even though I’ve been _doing_ those stupid body temperature control spells.”  Yuri shifts, almost but not quite pouting.  Yuuri is at least ninety percent certain that the “almost-but-not-quite pout” is something he picked up from Viktor.  “Stupid body, stupid poison shit.”

Giving in to the urge to take care of him at least a little, Yuuri strokes his hair back from his face and tucks it behind his ear.  “You should rest more.”

Yuri glares balefully up at him.  “Everyone fucking tells me to rest.  I’m bored out of my damn mind, Katsudon!”

“Books?  Movies?” Yuuri suggests.

“My head is _not_ unfucked enough for me to read shit without getting a headache, and screens are always too bright.”  Yuri scowls.  “I already tried that.  I need to get back to sparring soon, though.  I know I already—”

He breaks off, a deep flush overtaking his face as shame suddenly swamps him like a crashing wave.  Alarmed, Yuuri sits up as Yuri pulls back, looking away.

“Yura?”

“I missed court two days back,” Yuri mumbles, drawing his blanket-covered knees up to his chest.  “You guys were relying on me to block them there.  I didn’t.  They’re planning to announce their stupid council at the tournament.  I… I’m—fuck—I’m sorry.”

“Oh, Yura,” Yuuri murmurs, leaning forward to stroke his hair back again.  He pulls the boy close again too, hugging him gently, and wonders if this is what it feels like to have a little brother.  There’s a twinge in his chest at the thought that Yuri feels like he’s failed them, and he wants nothing more than to comfort him.  “We’re not mad about that.  You didn’t exactly mean to—”

“Stop with the fucking platitudes, Katsudon,” Yuri says wearily.  That more than anything shocks Yuuri; he sounds tired and sad, not argumentative or snappish.  “You even warned me to be careful of what they might try to do to keep me out of court that day, and I still fell for it.”

Yuuri draws back with a huff.  “What _is_ it with you Nikiforov-Plisetskys and blaming yourselves for every damn thing that someone else does to you?  I swear, between you and Vitya I’m going to go crazy!  You did your best, and you didn’t ask to get poisoned!”

“We don’t even know for sure it _was_ poison,” Yuri mutters, crossing his arms.  “And it’s different.  He’s an idiot for saying that getting kidnapped was his fault, but I—”

“He says he should’ve been more careful and seen it coming,” Yuuri says, arching his eyebrows.  “Sound familiar?”

Yuri pretends not to pout again.  He _really_ looks like Viktor when he does that.

“Fuck _off,_ Katsudon.”

“That’s not answering the question,” Yuuri says pointedly, a little smug.  “And if it wasn’t poison, which I doubt at this point, but for argument’s sake, then you still got very sick.  That’s a justifiable reason to miss court, too.  This is salvageable, Yura.  We just have to plan around it.”

Yuri hunches his shoulders, arms still folded across his chest.  Yuuri can feel his desperation and his helplessness, spiking above the _pain-tired-hurt_ , and he has to stifle more words of consolation that he knows Yuri won’t want right now.  “Yeah, well, what kind of plan is that gonna be?  I haven’t heard jack shit from anyone because all they tell me to do is rest.”

Yuuri takes a deep breath.  He talked to Viktor some more this morning, and… Yura isn’t going to like this, they both know.

“Vitya thinks,” he says carefully, “you shouldn’t participate in the tournament in this state.”

Hurt splashes across Yuri’s mental landscape like a blot of dark ink spilled on a watercolor, and Yuuri winces as the boy jerks away from him.

“And… what do _you_ think?”

Yuuri presses his lips together.  “I… think he might be right,” he admits softly, but before Yuri can try to run away from him, he grabs his hands and squeezes them, tight.  “Not because I don’t trust you or have faith that you can do this for us, but because I’m afraid of you getting hurt again, Yura.  You’re… you mean too much to me.  I don’t want them to hurt you when you’re already weakened.  Please don’t feel—it’s not that we don’t think you can do this, it’s not that you’ve failed, _please_ don’t think that, okay?”

Yuri looks painfully, woefully unconvinced. 

“If I’d just been more _careful_ you wouldn’t be _saying that,_ ” he mutters, scowling darkly.  Yuuri almost wants to cry.  This is the exact reaction he was afraid of all morning when he talked to Viktor about the tournament, both of them still lying together in bed, discussing it with soft voices coupled with softer touches.  He’d been scared Yuri would be hurt by it.

“If they had been less ruthless and cruel and dangerous,” he corrects, shaking his head.  He can’t do this alone.  This conversation is too much, and he doesn’t know how to convince Yuri of what he’s saying, doesn’t know how to make it sound like it’s not a platitude or a comforting lie.  Viktor thought he was the one who should have this conversation with Yuri, thought Yuri would be more likely to listen to him.  Viktor was wrong.

He reaches out with his mind, finds Viktor in the library upstairs, sends him a touch of affection and a gentle but desperate request for help.  Viktor surprises him by thinking _love-love-love_ and _soon-now-soon_ directly back at him, and sure enough, his presence grows stronger as he hurries closer.

“Stop trying to make me feel better about being a fuck-up.”  Yuri gives him a sidelong glare, curling up with his knees tucked under his chin.  “You can say nice shit all you want, but we both know the truth is that I messed up and now you don’t want me involved.”

“That’s not true,” Yuuri starts, but the door opens halfway through and he can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief as Viktor breezes in, closing the door behind him and plopping himself down between Yuuri and Yuri.

“What do _you_ want,” Yuri grouses.

Viktor loops an arm about each of them and pulls them close.  Yuuri leans into his side willingly, while Yuri resists and ends up falling over and lying across his lap, still curled up into a stiff ball, in what can’t possibly be a comfortable position.

“Yura,” he says, voice charming and pleasant as if he was a part of this conversation all along.  Yuuri scoots a little closer so he can lean against him more easily, placing a hand on Yuri’s head and petting his hair soothingly.  “Stop acting like this entire thing is purely about your feelings on the tournament.”

Well.

That …

That certainly isn’t the angle Yuuri was trying to take.

Yuri scowls up at Viktor, still radiating hurt, and Yuuri pets his hair a little more frantically.  “What the hell is your problem?”

“My problem,” Viktor says, “is that I know you, and therefore I know that you’re taking this as if the reason we’re saying you shouldn’t compete is that we don’t trust you enough to let you be a cornerstone to our plans anymore.  That’s not true, though, and you know it.  Think _bigger,_ Yurochka—”

“You can’t _call_ me that while you’re being a massive dipshit—”

“—and look at the overall picture.  You’re hurt, you’ve been poisoned, and you might not be able to win the tournament in your current state.”

When Yuri starts to protest, Viktor just holds up a hand, patient but still smiling that too-cheerful smile.  Yuri falls silent and huffs.

“Do you think you could take on Mila right now?” he asks.

Yuri deflates, finally uncurling and pulling his blanket up to his chin as he lies on his back, head in Viktor’s lap.  “No…”

“There you go,” Viktor says.  “Through no fault of your own, you have been put at a disadvantage for the tournament, because our enemy is a cheating, morally unscrupulous bastard who has no problem poisoning or trying to kill a sixteen-year-old.”

There’s a cold, cold gleam in his eyes, swirling with the ice-blue of vast power.  Yuuri leans in and kisses his cheek, trying to remind him that not everything is harsh and cruel like the jagged ice and the snowstorms he itches to unleash on certain members of his court.

Viktor gives him a soft smile, the ice melting and warming in his eyes, and Yuuri relaxes into his side again.  Yuri blows out a deep sigh.

“…Sorry I fucked up at court.”

“For the millionth time,” Yuuri starts, but Viktor just laughs.

“If I say you’re forgiven, will you stop harping on it?”

“You can’t talk about harping on guilt for shit that’s not your fault, dumbass,” Yuri mutters, jabbing him in the stomach with a pointed finger, and Yuuri laughs, relieved that their dynamic feels normal again, not tense and upset.  There’s still a lot going on, but Viktor _did_ know how to talk to Yuri about the tournament after all.

“That’s different,” Viktor protests.  “You couldn’t have had any control over getting _poisoned,_ Yura.  That has nothing to do with… anyway.  My point is, it wasn’t your fault.”

“But getting kidnapped was yours?” Yuri shoots back.

“That’s not the whole story,” Viktor mutters, a little wry as he glances sidelong at Yuuri, who lets out a very deep sigh.

Back to normal, indeed.

* * *

“Yuuri,” Viktor says in the evening, his silhouette casting a noble profile against the window behind him.  “Yuuuuuu-riii.”

Yuuri looks up from the book in his lap and laughs.  “I’m right here!”

“Yes, but you’re not _here,_ ” Viktor pouts, just a little, and points at the space right in front of him.  “You’re all the way over _there!”_

“You’re the one over on the cold side of the room,” Yuuri points out, because he has a throw blanket and one of Viktor’s sweaters and he’s sitting by the hearth and he is quite [cozy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tyfYuWNBEbY), thank you.  “Come over here, then.”

“But when you’re cold you get clingy.”  Viktor grins, that little lazy and slow grin that makes Yuuri roll his eyes.  “So you should come here.”

Yuuri sighs, puts the book aside—he wasn’t doing a very good job of focusing on it with all the thoughts swirling in his head, anyway—and stands, going over to his clingy boyfriend in the window seat.  Viktor opens his arms invitingly, and Yuuri settles between his legs, tucking his head cozily into the crook of his neck.  Viktor is warm, even if the hearth is warmer, and the sunset outside is breathtaking.

Viktor hums contentedly, hugging him close, and nuzzles a kiss into his hair.  “Hello, darling.”

“Hi, you,” Yuuri smiles, tweaking the tip of his nose.  “Long time no see.”

Viktor sniffs daintily, hiding a smile with limited success.  It’s very endearing, and Yuuri wants to kiss him, but refrains because he also wants to look at him.  “I can’t believe my love comes all the way from Hinomoto to see me, just to bully me for wanting to hold him.”

“I can’t believe I come all the way from Hinomoto to see my love,” he returns, “but he won’t even move to hold me on the couch instead of by the cold window.”

A laugh rumbles through Viktor’s chest, and he squeezes Yuuri tight.  “That sweater looks good on you.”

“It keeps falling off my shoulder,” Yuuri complains, except it isn’t really a complaint because it makes him feel giddy to know that this sweater is a little big on him _because_ it’s Viktor’s, and he loves how cozy it feels to be surrounded by Viktor’s scent.

“I noticed.”  Viktor’s voice drops a little, low and warm, and then he goes for a kiss, smiling against Yuuri’s mouth.  “I like it.”

Yuuri kisses him again, cupping his cheek and savoring the slow, gentle moment.  Tonight is the calm before the storm, the moment when everything is planned out for tomorrow but not quite taking place yet.  Tonight is…

He can’t decide if he never wants tonight to end, never wants tomorrow to come, or if tomorrow can’t arrive soon enough.  Tension sits coiled in his gut like a spring, waiting to pop and strike.

Viktor touches his cheek.  “Are you worried, sweetheart?”

“Me?”  Yuuri blinks, laying his hand over Viktor’s warm one.  “Would I ever worry?”

“Well, maybe.”  Viktor gives him an affectionately teasing look, pecks his nose, and then tilts his head consideringly.  “Are you?”

Yuuri sighs.  “I… yes.  I’m… are you _sure_ you’re up for this?”

Viktor kisses his forehead this time, and Yuuri smiles at him.  He can tell that Viktor’s trying to think _calm-soothing-it’sokay_ thoughts so that he feels them, and it’s sweet.  He’s sweet.

“I’m feeling much more like myself these days,” he murmurs.  “I won’t… lie to you and say I’m fine, because you’ve made it clear by now that you won’t accept that, but… I’ll be alright tomorrow, darling.  I promise.  I can handle myself in a fight.  And I won’t be alone.”

Hearing him admit that he’s not fine but thinks he will manage is actually a relief—Yuuri can’t help but breathe out a sigh, relaxing against him.  “Good.  You won’t be.”

A few moments of silence pass as the sun continues to set outside.  Yuuri feels the rise and fall of Viktor’s chest as he lies there, cozy and content despite his nervousness, and lets his mind wander a little.

“Vitya?”

Viktor touches his chin, makes him look up, and smiles down, his expression soft and unguarded and open.  Yuuri, suddenly, remembers the beginning of last spring, when that expression was so foreign to him, remembers the way Viktor was so guarded and careful to be the perfect prince, and wonders with a little amusement what his past self would say now, seeing them curled up together so intimately.

“Yes?”

Yuuri sighs, biting his lip.  “Are you nervous?  About tomorrow?”

Viktor stills, ponderous, and Yuuri tucks his face into his neck again, anxiety swirling in the pit of his stomach.  He’s nervous about tomorrow.  They’ve decided that Yuri can’t fight, not while he’s weak as he is, and that means everything will come down to Viktor unveiling himself in the final battle, with no support on the arena floor.  Yuri and Yuuri will be in the stands, and Phichit will be with Amir and Leki nearby, but he’s still fretting.  There are so many ways this could go wrong…

“Yes,” Viktor eventually says, “and no.”

Yuuri traces loops and swirls on his chest, leading his fingertip over the fuzz of his crocheted sweater.  Viktor squeezes his shoulder.  “What do you mean?”

“I…”

Yuuri waits.

“I’m afraid,” Viktor finally admits, voice soft, “that I’m not strong enough to pull this off.  That I’m going to fail and it’s all going to fall to pieces again.  But on the other hand…”

He laughs, short and a little bitter, and Yuuri instinctively presses closer to him, protective.

“It’s not like I can mess anything up more than I already have, so I don’t have too terribly much to lose.”

“You haven’t messed anything up, Vitya.  None of this was your fault.”

Viktor hums.  “Maybe.”

Yuuri frowns at him, shifting against him to sit up a bit, and then pokes him very sternly in the chest.  “There’s no maybes about this, Vitya.  It was not your fault.”  He hesitates, then adds more softly, “She wouldn’t want you to blame yourself, either.”

A wave of emotion sweeps across Viktor’s mental landscape before he manages to get it under control, and the next thing Yuuri knows, he’s enveloped in a crushing hug, pinned tightly to Viktor’s chest as Viktor buries his face in his hair.  He manages to push one arm out of Viktor’s vicelike grasp and wraps it around his neck, holding on tight, and sends _love-love-warmth-assurance_ as best as he can, squeezing his eyes shut.

“I—I know.  You’re right.  Oh, Yuuri, god, she would have loved you so much,” Viktor whispers.  “So much.  I wish…”

Yuuri kisses his neck and says nothing, just letting Viktor hold him.  After a moment, Viktor sighs, relaxing his hold again, and tips Yuuri’s chin up for another kiss, slow and lingering.  Yuuri kisses him back a little insistently, wanting him to feel how loved he is, and Viktor chuckles breathily.  Yuuri can feel it rumble in his chest.

“You can tell me about her, if you want,” he suggests, then presses a kiss to the corner of Viktor’s mouth.  Instead of talking, Viktor turns his head to kiss him again, soft and sweet and vulnerable enough to stir fierce protectiveness in Yuuri’s chest.  He deepens the kiss, tightens his arms, and more emphatically surrounds Viktor’s mind with love.  He wants Viktor to feel it in his heart, radiating all the way to his fingertips and his toes and the ends of his hair, wants him to feel _loved loved loved_ and _safe_ and _together,_ no more sadness alone in the dark.

Viktor moans sweetly into his mouth.  Yuuri finally breaks the kiss to look at him, lying back against the cushions with his hair mussed, his eyes still closed, and his lips curved into a light smile, pink and thoroughly-kissed.  The setting sun lights up one side of his face with warm gold, highlighting the sharpness of his cheekbones and the curve of his jaw, and Yuuri’s breath catches in his throat.  He’s so _beautiful._

He shifts to straddle Viktor’s lap and leans down, arms around his neck and cradling the back of his head, to cover his face in little nuzzles and butterfly kisses, with the occasional peck here and there, and is rewarded by another rumbly little chuckle in Viktor’s chest.

“My Yuuri is so enthusiastic,” he murmurs, eyelashes fluttering as he looks up at Yuuri, his expression unguarded and dreamy.

“Your Yuuri thinks you need to be kissed more,” Yuuri answers, doing just that again.  This time, after another suitably deep kiss that leaves them both breathless, he trails his way along Viktor’s jaw to nip at his earlobe before moving down, kissing the pulse in his neck.  He lingers there and kisses him again, more intently, and this time Viktor gasps softly.

“ _Yuuri,_ ” he breathes, and Yuuri stops, hesitating.  Was that too much?

He lifts his head, strokes Viktor’s cheek, and looks up at him.  “Yes?”

Viktor lets out a soft whine.  “Why’d you stop?”

Yuuri blinks.  Realization hits a moment later, and then he has to laugh, burying his face in Viktor’s shoulder and melting against him in a warm lump of contentment.  “You—you were just saying my name, not trying to get my attention—”

“Oh my god,” Viktor groans, rolling over to pin him against the back cushion of the window seat.  He nuzzles their noses together as Yuuri keeps giggling, and then he laughs too, even as he steals another quick kiss.  “I can’t _believe_ you sometimes.”

“Mmm,” Yuuri hums, slipping his leg between Viktor’s because Viktor is warm and the window, as pretty as the sunset outside may be, is still a little drafty.  Viktor gives him an affectionate squeeze in response.  “The feeling is mutual?”

“You’re clearly the more ridiculous one of the two of us,” Viktor teases, his voice low and husky.  Their foreheads are pressed together, noses brushing, and this moment feels so soft and intimate that Yuuri can feel his heart soar up, up above the clouds.  It’s just the two of them, alone in their little sunset bubble, snuggled up together in the calm before the storm.  He loves this man.

“Me?”

Viktor grins.  “ _Yuuri,_ ” he moans again, and then immediately shifts, lifting his head and upping the pitch of his voice again in imitation.  “‘Yes?’”

Laughter spills from Yuuri’s stomach again, and he tips his head back helplessly.  “Please, I was trying to be considerate in case I did something you didn’t like and here you are, making _fun_ of me for it—oh!”

Viktor nuzzles his neck and kisses the hollow at the base of his throat, slow and deliberate, and Yuuri’s breath hitches, his hands twining into that silky hair.  He melts and tips his head to the side; Viktor takes full advantage of his access to the soft skin of his neck and nuzzles, kisses, and gently sucks a little as he works his way from Yuuri’s ear to his collarbone.  Yuuri lets out a second breathy _oh,_ and maybe a third one too—he isn’t really paying much attention to what he’s saying—as Viktor’s lips find the pulse in his throat.

“Vitya…”

Immediately, Viktor lifts his head, eyes twinkling.  Yuuri feels his amusement surge just as he opens his mouth and says—

“Yes?”

Yuuri groans and closes his eyes.  “You suck.”

“Mm, well.  You seemed to be enjoying it.”  Viktor kisses the tip of his nose, warm amusement still radiating from his mind, and Yuuri huffs at him even as he tugs him close, hugging him tight.  Viktor hugs him back, scooting in a little closer, before he changes his mind and sits up.  “Hey, come here?”

With a bit of rearranging, they end up in their original position, so Yuuri is less squished and Viktor is less precariously hanging halfway off the side of the window seat.  Yuuri leans against his chest and smiles, petting his shoulder.  He’s warm and solid and strong and beautiful.  God, he loves him.

“You know,” Viktor hums, arms snug around his waist, “this is the kind of life I want.  After tomorrow, after everything settles… no matter what happens and where we end up, when we’re married all I want to do is spend my time making you laugh.”

_When?_

Yuuri freezes.  Surely that was a mistake, a slip of the tongue referring to their previous engagement…

Viktor, sensing his tension, freezes too, his eyes going wide.  Then he groans and smacks his forehead.  Yuuri, still a little petrified in his arms, looks up with confusion.

“Vitya…?”

“Yuuri.”  Viktor shakes his head ruefully.  “I’m an idiot.”

“It’s okay,” Yuuri says quickly, doing his best to ruthlessly quash the little flurry of surprised hope that dared to raise its head.  “It was a simple mistake, don’t fret…”

“Simple mistake?”  Viktor lets out an incredulous laugh, but remarkably, doesn’t sound bitter at all.  He just hugs Yuuri tighter, pulling him back against his chest, and nuzzles his hair.  “I even asked Phichit to get a letter from your parents, and Yura’s going to kill me because I coerced him into helping me with dinner, and you say it’s _simple_.  Oh, my Yuuri.”

Yuuri’s brow furrows.  “Wait, what?  What are you talking about?”

Viktor blinks, then lets out a charming laugh.  “Uh… this complete mess I’m making out of asking you to marry me?  Will you, my love?”

For a moment, Yuuri forgets how to breathe.  He’s snuggled up with the most beautiful man in the world, wearing his sweater and wrapped in his arms, looking at his gorgeous face and big blue eyes and soft, soft hair, and feeling the beat of his heart and every gentle, sweet little tug of emotion in it.  He’s being held by the most wonderful man on the planet, and _he’s just been proposed to._

Viktor’s glowing smile falters, and his arms loosen.  “Ah… darling?”

“Oh my god,” Yuuri whispers, remembering how to speak, how to move, how to respond.  His hands, he realizes, have jumped to his cheeks, and he’s been staring at his poor Vitya, wide-eyed.  “Oh my god, Vitya…”

Viktor lets out an _oof,_ startled, when Yuuri tackles him down to the pillows, but he starts laughing again after that, and it’s the best sound Yuuri’s ever heard.

“I take that as a yes?”

_“Yes,_ ” Yuuri gasps, kissing his cheeks wildly.  “Yes, yes, yes, oh my god, yes!”

Viktor beams, radiant with the glow of joy.  His cheeks are flushed pink and he looks so _happy,_ so happy that Yuuri never wants this moment to end, just so that he can always have that smile.  He deserves that kind of joy, after everything he’s been through.

Unable to lie still, Yuuri squirms with excitement and kisses him several times, giddy and heady from the thrill that thrums under his skin.  Viktor laughs between kisses, his hand running through Yuuri’s hair playfully, and he kisses back with eager happiness.  Happy tears prick at Yuuri’s eyes, spilling down his cheeks as he clings to his laughing _fiancé_.

“Yuuri, Yuuri!”  Viktor’s hands roam his hair, his shoulders, his back, his hips.  “My Yuuri, my darling, my love, my breath, my heart, my—mmph!”

Yuuri kisses him soundly, leaving him a little dazed and dreamy-eyed when he finally pulls back, licking his lips.  “My sappy cheeseball,” he murmurs, voice low and warm as he presses his forehead to Viktor’s again, straddling his lap and kissing him sweetly.

“Yes,” Viktor agrees, eyelashes fluttering as he looks up at him.  “Yours.”

Yuuri melts, hugging him tight, and laughs breathlessly as Viktor squeezes him back, face buried in his neck.  The knot of anxiety from earlier is fading; it won’t fully leave, not when tomorrow hangs like an anvil hovering above their heads, but this—well, it’s the best he’s going to get.  Viktor always makes him smile.

“Oh.”  Viktor pulls back, reaching for the chain at his neck.  “I owe you an engagement ring, don’t I?  I thought it would be fitting if—”

Yuuri stops him, taking his hands and pulling them away from the clasp.  “Keep it.”

Viktor stops, blinks.

“I want you to have it,” Yuuri mumbles, ducking his head.  “If… whenever we find yours, then you can give me this one back.  But until then I want you to have it.  I… I like knowing you’re wearing it.”

“Oh,” Viktor breathes.  He pulls Yuuri back to his chest, hugging him close, and rocks him back and forth slightly.  “You are so good to me, my sunshine.  My sweetest sunbeam.”

Yuuri shivers with pleasure when Viktor’s fingers stroke the hair at the nape of his neck, sending a tingle down his spine.  Viktor caresses small circles there, slow and hypnotic, and Yuuri sighs contentedly, leaning his cheek against his temple.  He didn’t realize just how much he had been missing this, just spending time with Viktor and not _worrying_ about him, until he finally got to experience it again; it’s almost like it used to be, before the coup threw everything out of balance.

Even in Elvetia, he spent most of their time together fretting and trying to take care of him, rather than just being with him.  Not that he regrets any of that, but it’s… different, and simple companionship like this, with silly flirting and lots of hugs and no _are you okay now_ s or _I’m so sorry you’re hurting_ s, feels good after so long without it.  Yuuri smiles to himself, turning his head to the side, and presses a kiss into his fiancé’s (!!!!) hair.

“So,” Viktor interrupts his thoughts, beaming.  “As my fiancé, you’re going to protect me from that which would do me harm, right?”

Yuuri blinks.  “I mean, yes, of course…?”

Viktor plants a loud, smacking kiss to his lips, one that makes Yuuri wrinkle his nose.  “Wonderful!  Because Yura is going to _murder_ me when he finds out I accidentally proposed before dinner.  He helped me make you katsudon pirozhki, you know.  They’re very good.  You’re going to love them, but you have to make him stop trying to murder me before we can eat them, okay?”

Laughter bubbles up Yuuri’s throat and comes out as a very undignified snort that breaks into giggles.  “Oh my god, Vitya, I thought you were being serious for a moment there—”

“I was!”  Viktor pouts, sticking his lower lip out as far as he can for exaggerated effect.  Yuuri kisses it and pets his hair in playful placation.  “Yuuri, he’s going to kill me, you know he is!”

“I’m sure of it,” Yuuri teases, his fingers slowing in Viktor’s hair.  Viktor gives up on the pout and just laughs, exuberant, radiant, and beautiful; Yuuri’s breath catches in his throat for a moment.

“Yuuri,” Viktor says, and Yuuri looks at him fondly.  “Tell me you love me?”

“I love you,” Yuuri says immediately, cupping his face in both hands.  “Forever and always.”

“Oh, good,” Viktor sighs, closing his eyes with a dreamy smile.  “At least I will die a loved man.”

“He’s not going to _kill_ you,” Yuuri laughs, amusement making his heart swell.  “He might just, um, yell.  And threaten you.  But we’ll be celebrating!  He can’t ruin that by killing anyone, Vitya.”

Viktor gives him a long, considering look before he finally cracks a silly little grin.  “You never know.”

* * *

[18:42] Yuri Plisetsky:  
you did WHAT  
how the FUCK do you accidentally propose  
you have five seconds to explain before i stab you i swear to god

[18:44] Viktor:  
D:

 

* * *

Yuri jabs his elbow into Katsudon’s ribs.  “Stop fretting.”

“Ow!  Yura—I’m not _fretting,_ ” Katsudon complains, discreetly rubbing his side as Beka attempts to disguise a snort as a cough.  “Your elbows are pointy!”

“That’s the idea, yeah.”  Yuri rolls his eyes, watching the duel going on below with narrowed eyes.  It’s a bright, sunny day, so bright that it’s almost hard to watch the arena with all its decorations and the snow gathered away from the spell-warmed grounds.  Mila is fighting in the final round right now, taking down the lady of House Vinogradov that made it all the way here, but Yuri is sure she’s going to win. 

And then she’s going to face Sergei.

So yeah, maybe Katsudon is a little justified in his fretting-that-isn’t-fretting.  Grandpa said that a man like Sergei should be expected to play dirty, a sentiment Yuri strongly agrees with after knowing the sleazebag even just a little bit.  It was supposed to be _him_ down there, facing down the fuckhead that tortured his cousin and helped murder his aunt, but…

But Sergei fucking played dirty, big surprise.  He just didn’t count on Mila, Yuri would be willing to bet.

“He doesn’t know, right?” he asks, nudging Katsudon again.  “About Babacheva?”

Katsudon shakes his head.  They’re sitting alone, just the three of them in a private viewing box above the arena.  Viktor isn’t with them, and neither are the three shadow assassins—they’re intermingling with the common crowd in the stands, where Viktor is cloaked and hidden and waiting for his moment to come.  That’s another reason Katsudon is fretting: Viktor, and his upcoming duel.

“He doesn’t know, but I’m sure he’s still going to play dirty because his credibility would be damaged if he loses after how many times Vitya has won in the past.”  Katsudon worries at his lip, and Yuri elbows him again (lightly, this time, because he’s a nice fucking person, see?).

On the floor, Mila dances her way around Lady Vinogradov and ducks aside with a shout.  Yuri stares, heart in his throat.  The Vinogradovs are allies of the Nikiforovs.  Surely that means Ivanovich won’t sabotage Mila in this round; he’d want the Babicheva-who-turned to win, rather than a Vinogradov.

“Zhanna’s running the medical tents, isn’t she?” Katsudon asks suddenly, sitting up straighter with alarm.  “Do you think they’ll send Mila to her if she speaks up in support when Viktor shows himself?”

“They might,” Beka says, oddly unconcerned, almost cavalier (or as close to cavalier as Beka gets).  “Don’t worry.  If it comes to that, I’ll take care of it.”

Both Katsudon and Yuri give him odd looks.  What is _that_ supposed to mean?

“You’ll… do what, exactly?” Katsudon prods after a moment, while down below, Lady Vinogradov nearly lands a hit on Mila’s side with a neat thrust.

Beka shrugs.  “You’ll have all the attention on you as soon as King Nikiforov challenges the impostor.  Nobody will notice if she stops showing at the medical tent.  So if Lady Babicheva needs healing, I can take care of that.”

“Oh.”  Katsudon smacks his forehead.  “Right.  Right, we talked about this last night.  Sorry.  Sorry, my head is all over the place right now.”

“That’s fine.”  Beka reaches over Yuri to pat Katsudon’s shoulder a little awkwardly, and Yuri almost laughs at him.  “It’s understandable, given the circumstances.”

Mila twirls her wrist and in a fancy motion that happens in the blink of an eye, disarms Lady Vinogradov.  There’s a moment of stunned silence before the crowd erupts in a frenzied storm of applause, and Mila grins radiantly, bowing to the audience and turning to her opponent for a firm handshake.  She says something that none of them can catch because of the distance, and Lady Vinogradov laughs; then both of them clear the field as results are updated on the light-magic infused scoreboard above the arena.

“She’s not hurt?”  Yuri can’t help but be surprised.  He was _sure_ there would be some kind of trap that’d let Mila win but make her forfeit the round against Sergei so that he wouldn’t have to be revealed as the fucking loser he is.  “That’s weird…”

“Something is wrong.”  Katsudon narrows his eyes.  “I don’t trust that bastard.  He’s not going to play fair.”

“There’s a ten minute break between the tourney final and the big finish,” Yuri reminds him.  “They could still be planning something.”

“It has to be public,” Beka muses.  “Whatever they do has to be seen publicly so that the crowd doesn’t boo them.  It has to be an unfortunate accident or something believable that makes her forfeit.”

“This is useless,” Katsudon mutters.  “There’s no point in theorizing about something we can’t stop.  I just… I hope she’s going to be okay.  But we have to stick to the plan if we can.  There’s a lot riding on it.”

Beka nods.  “You’re right.”

Yuri grits his teeth.  Sticking to the plan in theory is all well and good, but if he already fucked up so that he can’t fight and then had to withdraw and then—

Okay, ugh, Katsudon had a point earlier and Yuri hates him for bringing it to his attention, but god, he really _does_ sound like Viktor when he talks shit about himself like that.

“I wish we could have gotten her out of there before today,” Katsudon adds, sighing.  “Or been able to get in touch with her more frequently without endangering her spy work.  But I guess I should take my own advice and stop worrying about things I can’t fix.”

“Stop fucking fretting in general, you mean,” Yuri grouses, raising his elbow threateningly.  “I see you, Katsudon.”

Katsudon offers him a long-suffering sigh.  “Thank you, Yura.”

“I wonder,” Beka says suddenly, “if they ever had the opportunity to get some of her blood.”

Yuri’s heart sinks like a stone.  “You don’t think…”

“The most powerful spells would need it, but there are some that wouldn’t even need that,” he says softly, and Katsudon looks even more worried.  “There are a few that require only skin-to-skin contact between the caster and the subject, if the subject is external, and in a duel, that’s not _that_ hard to come by…”

“Oh, no,” Katsudon breathes.  “That’s probably it, then, if there’s nothing visible happening right now.  You’re right.  But spells like that aren’t deadly, right?”

“No, no.”  Beka shakes his head.

“They’re not gonna try and _kill_ her, Katsudon,” Yuri scoffs.  “They want the big deal of this event to be their stupid-ass bill, not overshadowed by someone _dying._ ”

“You’re right,” Katsudon sighs, pressing his face into his hands.  “We know all this already.  You’re right.  I’m just nervous, I think.  Sorry.”

“Fretting,” Yuri mutters.  Katsudon sighs again and doesn’t dignify that with a response.

Sure enough, Mila walks back into the ring with a surge of applause, just a few minutes later, and Sergei, still wearing Viktor’s face, joins her from the other side as Petrov, the announcer apparently, calls out their names and quickly goes over the guidelines for the match.  The crowd thrums with excitement—everyone in this city, or the damn country even, knows and loves Viktor in the arena.  He’s a wonder, a star, the legendary swordsman who’s gone undefeated since he started his winning streak several years ago.

Well.

That might change today.

This is the penultimate round of the day.  It might be ultimate, as there isn’t always a final challenger, but today, of course, there will be.  As a result, everyone’s attention is focused on the arena; Yuri shifts in his seat, uncomfortable and hyper-aware of everything around him.

Mila stands, facing Sergei, and raises her sword in salute.  Sergei mirrors the gesture, Petrov calls _start,_ and the grounds fall to a hush.

The first clash of blades rings out with a violent _clang,_ and even though fighting has been going on since morning, Yuri winces as it echoes through the air.  He’s on the edge of his seat (literally) and he can tell Katsudon is much the same, even though he’s doing a way better job of being all refined and princely than Yuri could ever hope to in this stressful of a situation.

It still doesn’t sit well with him that part of their plan rests in just _knowing_ Mila’s gonna get hurt and planning around that, instead of being able to stop it in the first place.  But Viktor pointed out, solemn and serious, that there wasn’t really a way for them to get around it without putting one of them in more danger than necessary, and that Mila knows the risks she’s up against by entering the tournament.  She’s not stupid.

Which, like, Yuri _gets_ that, but this entire situation still rankles, so…

Fuck this, okay.

“I can’t watch this,” he mutters, clenching his hands into fists as Mila dances around Sergei, keeping her distance from his reach for the moment.  “Not when I know it’s just gonna…”

“I know,” Katsudon murmurs.  He lays his hand over Yuri’s for a moment before withdrawing again, and Yuri wants to smack himself for almost reaching for it to pull him back.  What is he, a baby?  He doesn’t need to hold _hands_ to calm down—

Katsudon wordlessly lays his hand over his again.  Yuri glares at his empath head.

Sergei dodges away from one of Mila’s thrusts almost gracefully (almost, because he’s ugly and not even Viktor’s body can stop him from being a fuck) and sidesteps, and Yuri breathes in sharply as he gets close to her, wondering if this is it—this is the touch that might trigger the spell Beka thinks is what he’ll use—

Mila whips away and leaps aside, defense high.  Good.  Honestly, Mila is fucking skilled; Yuri might not have beaten her even on a good day, and he knows his own skills well enough to say that they’re way up there.  She definitely could give Viktor a run for his money.  Maybe he doesn’t have to worry so much about her…

…Except then he remembers that the fact that she’s good is the entire _reason_ he has to worry, because it means there’s no way Sergei can beat her on his own unless he’s somehow a super snazzy swordsman under all the layers of shit that comprise his personality, and that means Sergei is totally going to cheat because the shit wins every time.

“I can’t watch this,” he repeats, clutching Katsudon’s hand so hard it probably hurts.  His knuckles are white.  

“She’ll be fine,” Katsudon murmurs, trying to be soothing.  He’s totally just talking to himself and trying to convince himself, though; Yuri can see right through him.  “Everything will be fine.  We’ve planned for this.  We know what we’re doing.  Everything is going to be fine.”

Beka just grunts in agreement.

Time passes achingly slowly, with every clash of blades making Yuri’s heart rate spike.  He watches as the seconds drag on and on into minutes as Mila and Sergei duel, and then Beka sits up straight all of a sudden—

“There,” he whispers.

—Sergei brushes past Mila seemingly fleetingly, but his free hand is raised and passes near her arm, and she stumbles.

“Oh, fuck,” Yuri hisses.  Katsudon is stony silent, his lips pressed together in a stoic line.  His face is so cold it reminds Yuri of Viktor, and he looks away.

Mila drops her sword and raises her hand as if to call for a time-out, staggering back with the other hand to her forehead.  Sergei lowers his blade and approaches, and though they are too far to be audible, Yuri can see the sleazy lines of fake concern written in his body language.

After a moment, Petrov calls over the announcement system.  “Lady Babicheva appears to have suffered an unfortunate bout of dizziness and therefore forfeits the round!  A pity, to be sure, but we thank her for this exemplary display of swordsmanship today.”

Sergei takes Mila’s arm to help her to the exit of the arena.  That’s the final straw; Yuri rockets out of his seat.

“ _Fuck_ that,” he declares, leaps over the back row of chairs, and flees the viewing box.  Behind him, he knows Katsudon is waiting, tensing, getting ready because Petrov is about to congratulate Sergei on his victory and ask whether there are any final challengers who’d like to test themselves against the champion, and that means Viktor is about to show himself, and that means Katsudon is about to have to throw everything to the wind and speak up about what’s happened…

But right now all he wants to do is to get Mila away from that _creep._

He races down the stairs at the back of the arena seating area and sprints across the grass, hardly caring that his own body is still kind of weak from the poison and that he’s a little dizzy himself.  When he spots a shock of red hair, he’s almost to the arena entrance itself, but luckily, she’s alone, leaning against a stone pillar and panting.

“Babacheva!”

Her head snaps up.  “Yura?”

He skids to a stop in front of her, glaring daggers down the tunnel back into the arena even though Sergei is gone.  “Yeah.  Come on, I don’t trust the doctor, let’s get you to Beka.  That was a fucking spell, that damn cheater, god.  Are you okay?”

Mila seems bewildered.  “I, ah, I think?  I just feel really dizzy—what spell?  What are you talking about?”

The crowd in the arena suddenly erupts in a roar, and both of them instinctively look back.  There’s nothing to see from this angle, but Yuri knows what must have just happened.

Viktor just revealed himself.

His face tightens.  “Come on.  Let’s get out of here.  It’s about to get real chaotic, Babacheva, we need to move.”

“What’s going on?”  She leans on him when he irately drags her arm over his shoulders, though, following as he more or less hauls her away from the arena entrance and heads for their box again.  It’s a bit of a walk.  Fuck, why didn’t he drag Beka down here with him?

He catches sight of the medical tent nearby and scowls.  Fucking _Zhanna_.  He trusted her his whole life, only to find out that she was administering drugs and shit to Viktor and—god!  He can’t believe she’d do that!  She used to give him colorful band-aids when he was little!

But before he can ruminate on that, the tent flap rustles, and…

“Beka?!”

“Oh, there you are.”  Beka looks relieved to see them. “I was afraid I might have to go looking for you.  Come on.”

A little bewildered, Yuri exchanges a glance with Mila but pulls her that way, and she follows without protest.  She must be _really_ dizzy if she’s not questioning or teasing.

“What’s going on, you guys?” she asks again, while Beka takes her hands and ushers her into a chair.  She rests her head in one hand, leaning on the armrest, and closes her eyes with a groan.  “Did someone challenge the fake Viktor?”

“Yeah,” Yuri says.  “The real Viktor.”

Beka goes to one of the nearby cabinets and pulls out a ruby that shines with a weird iridescence, different somehow.  He passes it to Mila wordlessly and then places a hand on top of her head, presumably to work the spell.  She takes it wordlessly, but Yuri, despite everything, has to stifle a laugh at the sight, just because it looks so lighthearted compared to everything else that it seems ludicrously out of place.

“Viktor is fighting Sergei?” she repeats, a little late.  “But…”

“Katsudon is probably already speaking up in his defense so that they don’t call him a fake,” Yuri says with a sense of bravado he doesn’t entirely feel.  “Don’t worry about it.  We have this all planned out, Babacheva.”

Mila snorts.  “You’re just glad you get to call me that again, aren’t you, squirt?”

“Shut the _fuck_ up, I swear to god—” Yuri huffs, then stops.  “By the way, Beka.  Wasn’t Zhanna supposed to be in here?  What did you do?”

“I figured that if I was going to be treating someone already fatigued, I’d want an energy crystal,” Beka shrugs.  Yuri could smack himself for forgetting that blood mages can store energy for healing in those specially charmed rubies, which are pretty common in hospitals and shit.  Ugh.  His brain is elsewhere today.  “So I decided this would be a good place to get them.”

“Yeah, but…”

“She’s still in here,” Beka adds, then gestures at the large wardrobe in the corner.  There’s a padlock holding it shut.  As Yuri watches, it rattles slightly as something thumps from within.

Mila is the first one to laugh.

“I can’t _believe_ you,” Yuri groans, shaking his head.

Beka shrugs, finishing his spellwork and stepping away from Mila. “It was effective.  Lady Babicheva, are you feeling better?”

“I am, thanks.” Mila rolls her shoulders and then her neck, slow and careful.

“You _locked her_ in a fucking cupboard, oh my god,” Yuri repeats, attempting not to wheeze or cackle, with only limited success.

“Boys, boys,” Mila says, handing Beka the stone and standing up. “As great as it is to hang out and laugh at the things you gotta do when the going gets tough, I think there are more important things that need doing right now.  If Viktor’s fighting Sergei and Yuuri’s trying to talk to the press, I think _someone_ needs to make sure the press get an eye on him, yeah?”

“You’re right,” Beka agrees, nodding, and Yuri nods quickly too.  A sense of excitement starts to grow in his chest, apprehension mingling with a thrill.  There _is_ something he can do today after all!  All he has to do is team up with Mila and Beka and commandeer a news crew.

“What are we waiting for?” he asks, clapping his hands.  “Let’s go!”

The wardrobe rattles again as they leave the tent.  None of them pay it any mind.

* * *

There are some [moments](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MgK_OfW7nl4) in Viktor Nikiforov’s life he is sure he will never forget.  The feeling of leaping the barricade, cloak flying behind him, to land on the arena floor and throw back his hood and summon an ice blade, shimmering in the sun, to declare his challenge to the usurper in front of him as the crowd behind erupts in chaos, is one of them.

So is the look of utter shock on his double’s face.

“I, Viktor Nikiforov, rightful King of Ruthenia and true heir of Queen Vasilisa Nikiforova, challenge you, usurper!”

He can see Sergei’s face pale, and he draws no small satisfaction from that glimmer of fear.  _Good._ Who’s the one who should be trembling now?  No more taunting from above for Sergei; his cruelty has come back to haunt him today, with a cold, cold vengeance.

“What is this?” Petrov demands from the announcer’s booth.  “An impostor trying to pull off an ill-conceived prank?  Impersonating the king is a high offense!  Guards!”

Soldiers start tramping into the arena, and Viktor readies a blizzard, feeling the air around himself drop in temperature several degrees as they try to surround him.  If they think they can contain him, they’re _wrong._

Ivanovich steps up to the announcer’s booth, too, it seems.  “This man is clearly deranged at the least, and treasonous at the most.  This impostor needs to be detained, perhaps indefinitely—”

“Actually,” a new voice cuts in, calm and deadly as a storm, “the impostor is the one wearing the crown.”

Yuuri stands at the front of the Crown Prince’s viewing box, voice magnified by the spells woven into it ages ago, just like the ones in the announcer’s booth.  He looks calm and firm and strong, his circlet catching the sunlight magnificently, and his poise is perfect.

God, Viktor is going to marry the _shit_ out of that man.

“Prince Katsuki, this is out of line—”

Yuuri smoothly cuts across Petrov, and a tense silence falls across the excited crowd as he works his magic.  “My lord, I am not speaking to you.  To everyone watching, whether here or televised, there are some secrets that must reach the light.  Last week, I addressed Hinomoto’s court, as many of you know.  I mentioned some state secrets that I could not divulge in public for fear of compromising Viktor Nikiforov’s safety.  Now, those secrets must come out.”

“This is out of line!” Petrov blusters again.  Yuuri ignores him, continuing with the speech he spent hours writing with Viktor days ago, and pride swells in Viktor’s chest.  The guards hesitate, but then try to close in while Sergei backs away.  Viktor readies himself.

“Your charade is falling apart, usurper!”  He laughs, tossing his ice blade from hand to hand with a carefree air.  “Don’t you know the real king would have a blizzard surrounding the fake by now, rather than needing his army to save him?”

As he speaks, ice radiates out from the ground under his feet with a great _crack_.  The guards closest to him find themselves suddenly frozen to the earth, shackled in place by mounds of ice growing around their legs.  The further ones have a choice, because he’s merciful—it goes up to their ankles only, so they _could_ ditch their boots and flee, but he doubts they will.

A gasp goes through the crowd, and for a moment babble and chaos drown Yuuri out.  Viktor trusts in him, trusts that he’ll get them under control and can handle this part of it, while he strides forward toward Sergei.

“—placed him under a philological stranglespell on the day of his coronation,” Yuuri is saying as the crowd quiets again, no doubt calmed by his spells.  “People of Ruthenia and the world, let me be clear with you.  Lord Alexei Ivanovich committed high treason on the day of his grieving king’s coronation.  Furthermore, he planned this for at the very least months, but more likely years, before it happened.  He blackmailed the Nikiforov’s family doctor into murdering Queen Nikiforova with a potent blood magic poison, then planned to have me blamed for her death to incite war with my country.”

Yuuri has the crowd enthralled.  At this new revelation, another burst of talking and exclamations breaks out, sweeping the arena with noise, but sure enough, they quiet down again.  Viktor couldn’t be more proud.

He walks past one of the frozen guards who uses his free arms to try and slash at him with a broadsword.  Without a second glance, Viktor encases him in a block of ice and takes the sword from his outstretched hand, tossing the ice blade to his left hand and holding the heavier broadsword in his right.  Sergei has nowhere to run.  If he runs, he looks like a coward and a liar.  If he stays, he will be defeated.

He can’t win.

“Sergei,” Viktor greets, smiling coldly.  “I’d say it’s lovely to see you again, but I try not to make a habit of lying.”

“Go to hell, Nikiforov,” Sergei hisses, raising his rapier.  Viktor lifts an eyebrow.

“I have a broadsword and an arsenal of magic that ensures you won’t ever touch me again, you foul little man.  Are you sure you want to attack me with a sparring rapier?”

Sergei glares.  “You have no room to call me any names, king of filth.  Who was it that was lying there crying for his mommy like—”

Viktor drops the ice blade to surge forward and grabs him by the collar, hauling him up and nearly using the broadsword to bash him in the face.  He barely restrains himself, instead just hissing a warning. _“You do not get to speak of her._ ”

Sergei jerks out of his grasp, looking shaken.  Good.  Viktor is going to shake him to the core, going to shake this court down to its foundations and build anew.  This vile corruption will _end._

“Do you surrender, usurper?” he asks coldly, letting a new dagger of ice form in his left hand while frost coats the broadsword.  The wind picks up in response to the chill shifting the breeze, and here and there, little flurries of snow twirl through the arena.  Viktor is ready for this to be finished, here and now.

“Never,” Sergei hisses, and takes his pathetic rapier and lunges.

Yuuri keeps talking, calm and strong, as he finishes narrating the story that they’ve both been living.  Later, Viktor will find it a little astonishing how quickly time went by and yet how slow it seemed to drag on.  In the moment, all he’s aware of is the quick flash of blades and the shock of the clang of metal on metal.  Sergei manages to hold his own for a minute or two, but Viktor has the upper hand and they both know it.

Swords and ice fly in a storm of unrelenting force; Viktor presses his advantage and refuses to back down, not even for a moment.  This will end today.  Sergei has some skill, but not enough, not enough to withstand him, and with a yell and a blast of ice and a strike of the broadsword, Viktor lunges.

“This is where this must end,” Yuuri says firmly, his voice ringing out above them.

Sergei falls, the point of Viktor’s broadsword at his throat.  He holds his hands up in surrender, eyes glimmering with malice and fear, and Viktor pins his arms and legs with ice.  Sergei’s head falls back as he goes limp in surprise, and the crown (his mother’s crown) rolls aside.

Viktor kneels gracefully to pick it up with reverent hands, spotting his own reflection in one of the diamonds.  “You’ve had something of mine for far too long.”

The arena erupts as he stands again, his mother’s crown resting on his brow, and smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MERRY CRIMMIS TO THOSE OF U WHO CELEBRATE AND HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO ALL!!!
> 
> 1\. chapter 20 is going to be a bit delayed because i am travelling at the moment - i'm tentatively aiming for jan 15!!
> 
> 2\. the chapter title is from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DLbqnmvLPKE) (which pots once told me was totally a trfl viktor song ages ago, and which i've been sitting on for months because it's VERY ACCURATE). highly recommend, it's a damn good song for the bamf vibe hahah
> 
> 3\. i love my gf
> 
> next time: what remains standing, when the dust has settled?


	20. we'll make this a world for two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end arrives, and with it, a beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for character death, violence, and suicide.

 

Things descend into chaos very quickly.

His speech over, Yuuri waits in the stands alone.  The crowd is roaring again, full of turmoil and frenzied, confused nobles and cityfolk; he stands tall and proud above them and waits, heart swelling.

Viktor…

Viktor has his crown back.

Pride swelling in his chest until he feels fit to burst, Yuuri can’t help but grin broadly as he looks down at his fiancé (his _fiancé!_ ) in the middle of the arena, surrounded by ice and standing over Sergei’s fallen and trapped form.  The crown on his head glints brightly in the sun, and when the breeze blows past him, it’s cold.

Good.

But this isn’t over yet.  There’s still Ivanovich and Petrov to be dealt with, and they likely still have the loyalty of the guards in the arena.  Viktor can hold his own, and while Yuuri knows that, he’s still worried—how could he not be when Viktor is standing down there in the middle of all this?—but at least his fears are a little assuaged by the knowledge that Amir is watching over him, waiting in case he needs to spring from the shadows to protect him.

As if summoned by the thought of shadow assassins, Phichit melts out of the shadow cast by the balcony wall and silently regards Yuuri for a moment, until Yuuri glances over at him.

“Hey.”  Phichit raises a hand.  He’s dressed in battle garb, dark as night and almost hard to look at even though it’s daytime, and his eyes glitter above the cloth covering his mouth and nose.  He’s here to make sure nobody gets to Yuuri now that the speech is out.

“Hi,” Yuuri greets in return, looking back down to Viktor, who is striding toward the Crown’s viewing box, clearly intending to deal with Ivanovich and Petrov.  “We should go that way.”

“Agreed.”  Phichit melts back into Yuuri’s shadow, which, if Yuuri’s eyes don’t deceive him, looks a little darker than it did before, and he starts walking, his stride purposeful and intent.  He isn’t a concerned lover, not right now.  He is a prince on a mission.

The crowd is full of dull uproar, some people trying to flee while others stay to watch the drama unfold.  Yuuri glides along the walkways easily, almost but not really surprised when the few people wandering between the high-ranking viewing boxes get out of his way.  Of course they would.  He’s the Second Prince of Hinomoto and soon-to-be Prince Consort to the King of Ruthenia, and he has places to be.

When he reaches the Crown’s viewing box, the door is locked.  That isn’t a problem to a shadow assassin, of course, and a sliver of darkness slips into the keyhole for just a second before there’s a _snick_ and the handle gives under Yuuri’s touch.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, and his own shadow gives him a thumbs-up in response.

Inside the viewing box, it’s suddenly quiet.  There’s an odd sense of calm and resignation, one Yuuri takes a moment to process, and instinctively he tightens his mental shields.

Alexei Ivanovich stands alone, looking down at the arena, his hands clasped behind his back.  If he wanted, Yuuri could lunge forward with his knife and strike him down right now.  His back is turned, and he’s vulnerable, and he could, and Ivanovich would deserve it, for everything he’s put Viktor through.  He could do it.

He doesn’t.

“Lord Ivanovich,” he says instead, closing the door again.  Ivanovich isn’t a physical threat to him, and he has Phichit right here.  He’s not afraid for himself, not in this box.  “It’s over.”

Ivanovich doesn’t turn, still surveying the chaos below, the icy wreckage of his carefully-laid plans glistening in the sunlight.  “It is, isn’t it, Prince Katsuki?”

“You made a gamble,” Yuuri says quietly, swallowing the rage that instinctively rises in his throat when he sees this man.  “You thought that I would passively sit aside once I was out of the way.  You miscalculated.”

“You’re right.  You weren’t supposed to make it this far,” Ivanovich says, defeat in his voice.  Yuuri wishes he felt triumphant like he did moments ago, but now, instead, he just feels a little sick.  “You got lucky, however you managed to persuade the shadow guild not to kill you.  I did miscalculate, it seems.  I didn’t account for your tenacity.”

_You didn’t account for how much I love Viktor Nikiforov,_ Yuuri almost says, but that seems too raw, too real, and too private to share with this monster of a man.  Instead, he just shakes his head.  “You can’t win this now.  You know it’s true.  Surrender, stand trial, and face your crimes.”

Ivanovich finally turns to face him, and Yuuri is startled to see actual tears in his eyes.  “You did the things that led you here out of love, didn’t you?  A love I might call misguided, but love nonetheless.  I did the same, Your Highness.  I love Ruthenia.  But my Ruthenia is dying, and it seems I must die with her, rather than for her.”

Yuuri presses his lips together, a little uncomfortable, because he _doesn’t_ know what he would’ve done, were their places completely reversed.  If he was so utterly convinced that he had to do something horrible in the name of something good… could he have done it?

And then he remembers the way Viktor sobbed, broken, after his mother’s funeral.  He remembers Viktor lying in bed, weakened and traumatized, trembling with nightmares after being drugged and tortured.  He remembers Yuri, crying to him on the phone after surviving a harrowing assassination attempt.  He remembers Sara’s account of Mila, distressed and alone and still fighting.

“No,” he says with conviction.  “You and I are nothing alike, _my lord._ ”

There’s a sudden commotion down on the arena floor, and he pauses, tensing, as screams ring out.  Dashing to the edge of the viewing box to look down again, he sees a group of soldiers advancing toward Viktor now, clearly having been given orders, and a flash of fear stabs through him.  Viktor handled himself against the guards in the arena well enough, but what if the elite guard comes out?  They’re probably already out, coming to defend Sergei.  Or what if there’s a shadow assassin here to attack him again—

_Don’t be stupid,_ he reminds himself, clenching his fists in the fabric of his robe before he lets his fingers brush the hilt of the knife at his hip.  Petrov must have declared a coup, publically, and told the guards to attack Viktor even though he’s just pretty much provided solid evidence that he’s the Ice Prince—rather, Ice King—and not Sergei.  The crowd will be panicking, trying to run; nobody wants to be caught up in the crossfires of a coup, and Yuuri is willing to bet that even if Ivanovich is here, defeated, Petrov will try and use that to his advantage.  He has to keep his head clear.

Reaching for his admittedly somewhat exhausted magic reserves, he summons up the energy and prepares a general soothing spell, letting it radiate out from himself and calming the crowd around the Crown’s box.  He’s torn—he wants to make sure people get out of here safe, but he can’t leave Ivanovich, can he?

If Ivanovich and Petrov get away, it’ll be a pain in the ass to hunt them down, and who knows what they might concoct in the meantime… but on the other hand, there are innocents in that crowd, innocents that might get hurt in the turmoil.

Yuuri takes a deep breath.  He can’t ask Phichit to stay here and make sure Ivanovich doesn’t get away.  Phichit would never forgive himself if he agreed to that and then something happened to Yuuri.  He just has to hope Ivanovich won’t flee.

He steps back out of the [box](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lq2ANOkfsIA) and starts to walk, then jog, then run, heading down into the thickest part of the throng and trying to keep up the strongest calming spells he can muster right now.  In a crowd this big, panic can lead to injury, and even if he’s not married to Viktor yet, these are going to be his people, one day.

At first, he despairs that his spellweaving is even working, but slowly, he starts to see effects—people help each other up the stairs, when a young man trips an older lady helps him up, and the frenzied rush starts to slow.

It’s not perfect, of course.  He’s still tired.  Someone, panicking, shoves him aside in an attempt to flee, and he nearly trips down a flight of stairs, only barely catching himself with a yip of surprise.  The crowd is getting thicker here, and he’s going against the tide as parents carrying children and couples fleeing hand in hand rush past.  The path to the main section of the stands is close, though, and he’ll be there soon—

“Yuuri!”

Viktor suddenly appears out of the crowd in front of him, grabbing his hands.  Yuuri gasps in surprise at the sudden cold, but relief slams into him to see Viktor too, the broadsword slung over his shoulder in a sheath he must’ve taken from a guard.  Viktor pulls him into a quick, hard kiss, hands and lips cold as ice.

“You’re alright?  You’re not hurt?” he asks, eyes searching his face worriedly, and Yuuri hurriedly shakes his head, suppressing a shiver.

“I’m fine,” he says.  “I was just trying to get down to you—did Petrov declare the coup?  Publically?  That’s what’s going on, right?  I didn’t hear—”

“He did,” Viktor says, blue eyes darkening like a storm.  They’re still glowing, just barely, from the magic keeping ice just under his skin, and god, Yuuri loves him.  “I needed to be sure you’re safe.”

“I’m fine,” Yuuri promises.  “Ivanovich was in the Crown’s box—I had to leave him to help with the crowd, but he might still be there.  I hope he didn’t try to run—”

“Let’s go see,” Viktor says, something grim in his face, and he wraps one of his frigid arms around Yuuri’s waist.  A surge of ice grows beneath his feet, and Yuuri stifles a yelp of surprise as he covers the stadium seats in it, letting the ice flow directly up to the royal viewing box.  They run to the door, which is closed again, and Viktor throws it open.

It’s empty.

“Shit,” Yuuri curses.  “I’m sorry, Vitya, I let him get away.”

“He’s not going to run,” Viktor says.  He runs a hand through his hair, letting out a frazzled breath, then grabs Yuuri’s hands again to pull him into another kiss.  Yuuri does shiver this time, and Viktor quirks an apologetic little half-smile at him.  “I know where to find him.  Promise me you’ll be okay?”

“I’ll be fine, and I have Phichit with me,” Yuuri says, clasping his hands back firmly.  “I can come with you, if you need…”

Viktor shakes his head.  “No, love.  I need you here.  Where’s Yura?”

Yuuri pauses.  “Last I saw, he and Prince Altin went to find Mila.  I asked Rika to keep them safe, but I can go find them.  Did you take care of Petrov already?”

“Leki’s on it,” Phichit says, poking his head out of Yuuri’s shadow.  “The guards are about to lose their commander.  The coup will fail.”

“Good,” Viktor says.  “Someone needs to make sure Sergei gets taken into custody.  I’m pretty sure the guards down there will have freed him by now.”

Yuuri straightens, narrowing his eyes and pressing his lips together with distaste.  “Oh, he’s not getting away.”  There is no way in _hell_ he’s letting the monster that hurt his Vitya so many ways, the despicable man wearing his face, run away and avoid answering for his crimes.

“Thank you, dear.”  Viktor gives his hands a final, frigid squeeze before he lets go, the hilt of an icy blade already starting to form in his palm, and steps away.  “I’ll be back when I’ve dealt with Ivanovich.  Be safe.”

“You too,” Yuuri says, a little anxious, but Viktor can handle himself.  He’ll be fine.  And he’s already leaving; he walks out of the box, and Yuuri follows just in time to see him hop a rail and surf on ice all the way back down to the arena floor, where he curves a huge swath of ice into a wall between the guards down there and the exit, allowing himself to leave unhindered.

“What a show-off,” Phichit mutters, teasing, and Yuuri huffs out a little laugh.

“Come on,” he says.  “We have an impostor to catch.”

He hesitates for a moment.  The crowd has thinned, but there are still people trying to get out of the arena before the fighting reaches them, if it does, and he worries.  “Phichit…”

“We’re not splitting up unless Rika gets back to keep you safe,” Phichit says immediately, melting out of the shadows to stand next to Yuuri and survey the rush of people.

“I’d make a poor target for them in public,” Yuuri retorts, but he knows he isn’t changing Phichit’s mind anytime soon, and time spent arguing is time letting Sergei theoretically get away.  He just has to hope that the general soothing spell he cast earlier is good enough, and that all of the innocents will make it away safely.  The guards were originally mostly focused on Viktor, but now that he’s gone, their focus seems to be shifting to securing the grounds, while part of the force splits off to go after him.

Yuuri shakes his head.

“Let’s go.”

With a little trepidation, he steps carefully onto the ice Viktor left behind when he went tearing after Ivanovich, falling into a low crouch and sliding down toward the arena floor.  He grits his teeth against the wind in his face and keeps his weight over his back leg for better balance, arms thrown out, and hears Phichit behind him let out a whoop.  They reach the ground with a running start, and Phichit immediately draws his dual daggers, narrowing his eyes at the soldiers nearby.

“Greetings,” he says in Xianese, his shadow dancing at his feet.  Two of the soldiers stumble back in fear.  Another drops his spear and runs.

“Prince Katsuki,” a fourth says, greatsword in hand.  “We have orders to bring you into custody for crimes against the State.  Please come peacefully, or…”

“No,” Yuuri says immediately, drawing his own knife.  It’s vibrating slightly in his hand, thrumming with magic like it did in the alleyway.  “Where is your leader?”

“Come peacefully,” the guard repeats, glancing at Phichit.  Yuuri can feel a surge of nervousness and fear in his mind.  “Please.  Or our deaths will all be on your hands.”

Yuuri is so shocked he lowers the knife for a moment, stepping back, but Phichit doesn’t let it get any further than that.

He zips into nothingness for a moment, then leaps out of the guard’s shadow with a tornado roundhouse kick that lands solidly in the man’s solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him.  Before he even lands, he flits into shadow again, appearing from the spear’s shadow this time to snatch it away, knock the winded guard down with its butt, and twirl it around to hold the point threateningly at the soldier’s throat.

“I don’t have to kill you,” he says, his voice dark and cold.  “If Yuuri wants you all spared, you will be.  But that doesn’t mean—”

The shadow of Phichit’s hand on the spear suddenly rears its head like a tiny dagger of the void, then jabs itself through the guard’s shoulder, pinning him to the ground with a _squelch_ and a spurt of blood.  Yuuri flinches, feeling the sudden pain from the man’s mind as he screams.

“—that I can’t stop you from being a threat to him.”  He looks meaningfully at the three remaining soldiers, who stand slack-jawed.  “I suggest you all think carefully on whether you’d like to try to apprehend the Prince.”

Recovering from the shock of the soldier’s pain right next to him, Yuuri regains his composure and clears his throat.  “I’ll ask you one more time.  Where is your leader?”

“The King—”

“I know where the King is,” Yuuri interrupts, eyes flashing.  “I’m talking about the traitor who tried to usurp his throne, or the spineless fool who’s trying to lead your coup.  Where are they?”

“L-Lord Stepanychev is—” the same soldier starts, and Yuuri files away the name.  He never did know Sergei’s family name, come to think of it; he only ever knew the despicable man from what Viktor overheard while drugged.

Her companion, however, clamps a hand over her mouth.  “Our king will never submit to you!”

Phichit cocks his head to the side wordlessly.  The soldier’s shadow suddenly twists beneath his feet, rises up, and grabs his throat.  Eyes bulging in their sockets, he stumbles backward, clutching at the formless hands choking him, until he falls to his knees next to the wide-eyed first soldier, who drops her sword and holds her hands up in surrender.

“I—he is near the announcer’s platform!” she gasps.  “Please, spare me—”

Yuuri turns away and breaks into a run, disregarding her.  There are patches of ice all over the ground here, and he almost slips a few times, but Phichit next to him keeps him steady.  The announcer’s platform is near another exit, and if Sergei (Sergei _Stepanychev_ , perhaps Viktor will know that name) gets away…

It won’t happen.  Yuuri won’t let it happen.

He runs into a few more guards, but Phichit doesn’t even let them talk to him—if they try to approach, their shadows attack their legs.  Yuuri doesn’t know how advanced of a spell that is, but he’s inclined to think it’s quite difficult, and his admiration for his best friend only grows as they hurry to the other side of the arena.

The exit is blocked with ice already, and several elemental mages from the false king’s elite guard are trying to melt it.  But Viktor is _good_.  Yuuri smiles with relief when he sees it, partly melted but incredibly cold and incredibly thick. 

“I’ll handle him if you can get rid of the guards,” he murmurs to Phichit, who gives him a quick nod and ducks away into shadow.

“Be careful,” he adds, then flits away.

Yuuri strides forward, knife in hand, to make his presence known.

“Stepanychev!”

The impostor, the usurper, turns around on the spot, eyes narrowing.  He still has Viktor’s face, but he doesn’t feel like Yuuri’s Vitya, not at all, and the rage simmering inside Yuuri’s chest grows.  How dare he wear Viktor’s face.  How _dare_ he!

“Katsuki,” Sergei spits, eyes darkening with a hate that Yuuri has never, ever seen on his love’s face.  “What do _you_ want.”

“You’re not getting out of here, and you’re not getting away with this,” Yuuri warns.  “Not you, and not any of your accomplices.  You will be brought to justice and you will face consequences for what you’ve done.”

“I don’t think so,” Sergei sneers, and his mental block falters enough that Yuuri can sense his desperation just before he lunges.

He’s picked up a real broadsword from somewhere, and Yuuri just barely manages to catch its hilt on his knife, gritting his teeth as Sergei bears down, trying to crush him with brute strength.  The knife thrums louder, reflecting less and less light, and Yuuri kicks out with a yell, aiming at Sergei’s knees and dropping to roll aside as his opponent stumbles, falling forward.  Yuuri springs back to his feet immediately, then hisses a curse as his formal robes swirl and catch around his feet. 

Sergei rushes him again, and it’s all he can do to drop aside, rolling away on the ground and slashing at the cloth until it falls away, left behind him as a pool of rippling blue silk in the dirt.  He leaps back to his feet, much lighter now that he’s ruined his heavy robes, and tries to catch his breath from that scare.  There’s no time for that, though, because Sergei’s sword is bearing down again, coming at him, and he has to duck aside.  Slashing forward with his knife, he manages to nick Sergei’s arm, but then he’s forced back again as the sword swings.

Damn.  He has to keep this fight in close quarters while Phichit handles the fifteen or so members of the elite guard over there; it’s a knife against a sword, and—

Sergei’s mental block falters again, just for a moment, and Yuuri seizes his opportunity.  He forces his way in, no longer caring whether it hurts or not, because this vile, vile man hurt his Vitya in unnecessary and cruel ways and Yuuri will never, ever forgive him; Sergei lets out a harsh cry and drops the sword, clutching at his head and falling to his knees as Yuuri heaps fear and horror and crippling anxiety and pain into his mind.

“You will _pay_ for what you did,” he says, voice low and dangerous as he walks forward, keeping his barrage up.  Sergei lets out a piteous wail, tears starting to stream down his cheeks, and Yuuri adds his own anguish, adds the memory of the grief and the hurt and everything that tormented him during the weeks of Viktor’s captivity.  It’s a little like twisting the knife, but he doesn’t _care_ right now, he’s just so—he’s so—

The realization of his own anger stops him in his tracks, and he hesitates, then stops, standing in front of Sergei.  That was—that was too much.  He… he doesn’t want to be cruel.  He can’t delight in someone else’s pain, and suddenly he feels a little sick, even though he _knows_ this man did horrible, horrible things to his Vitya.  He… he can’t…

“Do you surrender?” he asks quietly, holding his knife in front of him, pointed at the kneeling, fallen Sergei’s throat.  “Surrender, and we can be done with this.”

Sergei chokes on a sob.  “I…”

When he doesn’t answer after a moment, Yuuri swallows hard and repeats himself.  “Do you surrender?”

Helpless rage flares in Sergei’s mind, directed at him, and Yuuri ignores it.  After what he just did, he understands exactly why Sergei is angry with him.  He would be, too. 

“I surrender,” Sergei finally says, his shoulders slumping as he hangs his head.  Yuuri turns to look behind himself, wondering how Phichit is doing with the guards, and sees that all but one of them are in a pile on the ground.  The last looks like she’s about to join them, if the way she wobbles on her feet is any answer.  Where is Phichit?

“I accept your surrender,” Yuuri says. 

It’s over.  It’s all over.

Viktor will have taken care of Ivanovich, Leki’s handled Petrov, and Yuuri has now forced Sergei—Stepanychev—to surrender.  It’s all finally over.

Relief floods him so poignantly he thinks he might throw up.  He turns away, letting out a deep breath, and opens his mouth to call out to Phichit.  It’s _over._

Only the sudden flash of desperation and fury behind him serve as any warning that Sergei has grabbed his fallen broadsword and lunged for his unprotected back.

 

* * *

Viktor runs to the palace.

He knows where he’s going, he knows where Ivanovich is going, and he knows what he might find.  He’s not afraid.

He speeds through the courtyards, ice running in his veins, and tightens his grip on the icicle dagger in his hand before he bursts through the main doors.  The grandeur of the entry hall, dazzling and bright, is lost on him as he sprints across the carpet and down hallways full of memories, finally arriving at the throne room.  His mother’s throne room.

[His](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mq7LrougGYk) throne room.

He lets the dagger melt into nothingness, places his hands on either side of the double doors, and heaves them open.

Lord Ivanovich is standing in the center of the room, at the base of the throne.  He turns around at the sound of the doors, and nods when he sees Viktor, as if he expected this.  There is a small pistol in his hands.

“Your Majesty,” he greets, solemn, and inclines his head.  Viktor takes a few steps forward, then stops, a little wary.  Glancing up, he sees the portrait of his mother that he had hung in her honor above the throne, the day before his coronation, and feels a twinge in his chest.  She looks down over him as he stands, tall and proud, in front of the man that had her killed.

_Yes,_ he thinks, for the first time.  _She_ would _be proud of me._

“Lord Ivanovich,” he answers coolly.  “You have committed high treason against the State and the Crown.  You and I both know that if you try and fight me, you will lose.  Do you have anything to say in your defense, or will you come quietly into custody to face what you’ve done?”

Ivanovich sighs deeply, then glances up at Queen Vasilisa, stern and serene.  Viktor frowns, wondering if he’s just imagining it or if there are tears in his eyes.  “You know, Viktor… I have many regrets in my life.  Your mother’s death is, perhaps, the largest.”

Viktor’s chest tightens.  There’s a sour taste in the back of his mouth, making his confidence fade to the back of his mind as that still-raw wound shoves its way to the forefront.  “Maybe you should have thought things through before you murdered her, then.”

“Maybe so.”

Ivanovich looks up at the portrait for several long moments, then back to Viktor.  “You take after her in so many ways.  I’m sure she would have been proud.”

Viktor takes another slow step forward, bitterness surging in his veins.  “Why are you talking about her?” he bites out.  “You don’t even deserve to _think_ of her, after what you’ve done.”

“Perhaps I don’t.”  Ivanovich looks away from the portrait then, finally meeting Viktor’s eyes.  There _are_ tears on his face, Viktor notices, and can’t help but wonder whether he’s satisfied with that or not.  He’s angry, he wants to see this through, and he wants this despicable man to stop talking.  _Especially_ about his mother.  “But it had to be done.”

“It didn’t,” Viktor hisses.  “You murdered my mother in cold blood for no reason—”

“Your family is doing wrong by our beautiful Ruthenia, Viktor,” Ivanovich says, shaking his head, slow and solemn.  “You’ve never understood.  Of course you wouldn’t—she raised you not to.  You have her headstrong nature, don’t you?”

This is ridiculous.  He’s just stalling, isn’t he?  He’s just babbling and stalling to keep himself from having to admit that he’s lost and it’s all over.  And he’s trying to use Vasilisa Nikiforova as an excuse to do that.  The anger cools down and crystallizes into cold fury, slow and venomous, as Viktor squares his shoulders and glares.

“You’ve lost,” he announces, reaching for the blade at his back.  “You’re not going to win, and you’re not going to get away.  You’re under arrest, Lord Ivanovich.”

“I understand that I’ve lost.”  Ivanovich bows his head.  “I did what I could.  I did everything I could, Viktor.  You must understand.  This was for Ruthenia, for her glory of old.  The Eastern alliance, the demilitarization… you’re doing it all wrong.”

“You are the one doing everything all wrong,” Viktor says icily.  “You would happily murder innocent people for the sake of your agenda.  All you want is war and profit.  That’s not glory.  That’s not good for Ruthenia.  That’s just death for even more innocents.  Stop trying to play games with me, you vile, selfish man.”

“Not happily,” Ivanovich says with a heavy sigh.  “Prince Katsuki was slated to die when he refused to work with me.  There was no way around it.  The alliance is… I know you are far too blinded by love to see it, son—”

“ _Don’t_ call me that,” Viktor hisses.

“—but it’s going to hurt Ruthenia.  Other nations will see her glory fading, her greatness in decline…  You should realize where our true interests lie, Viktor.”

“You selfish little abhorrent _wretch._ ”  Viktor narrows his eyes, repulsed.  How _dare_ Ivanovich talk about love after everything he’s done?  “You do not get to say _anything_ about being _blinded by love_ or what is and isn’t right—you keep trying to talk around the fact that you’ve killed innocents.  You murdered my _mother._ ”

“It had to be done,” Ivanovich repeats.  He looks back up at the Queen’s portrait, and another tear rolls down his cheek, silently falling from his chin onto his clothes.  “I wish it hadn’t come to this.  Your mother… I admired her greatly.  I loved her.”

What?

No.  No, there’s no way.  That has to be a filthy lie.

Viktor takes a small step back, shocked, and then lets out a bark of humorless laughter. “You?  _You_ loved my mother?  You, the one who had her poisoned and killed?  Don’t make me laugh!”

A shrug, helpless, as if to say _take it or leave it._   It’s so blasé that Viktor’s frozen rage freezes even further.  “She was amazing, Viktor.  Vasilisa Nikiforova—proud, strong, brilliant, and beautiful.  I was her friend, once, when we were young.  Of course I loved her.  But I could not afford to let my personal feelings cloud what had to be done for Ruthenia,” Ivanovich says, again, like he’s been saying this entire time. 

For Ruthenia, for Ruthenia, for Ruthenia.  As if Viktor himself—as if Vasilisa—never knew what Ruthenia needed, never acted with their country’s best interests in mind, never did their best to do right by their people no matter what.  Irritation flares in his chest.

“Shut up,” he snaps.  “You killed someone you now claim to _love_ , all out of a sense of what—duty?  Hah!  You never loved her.  Don’t even say her _name,_ you son of a bitch.”

Ivanovich smiles thinly, almost sadly, as he looks up at the portrait, standing in front of Vasilisa’s throne, in front of Viktor’s throne.  “I accept my defeat,” he says, again.  “You have won, Viktor.  Congratulations on your victory.  Just know that everything we did, we did for a love of Ruthenia… oh, Ruthenia.  I am so sorry that it wasn’t enough.”

Viktor stares as he lifts the pistol to his own temple.  Numb and perhaps a little horrified somewhere below the layers of ice around his own mind, he makes no move to stop him.

“Farewell, Your Majesty,” Ivanovich says, and pulls the trigger.

The gunshot is unnervingly loud in the silence of the throne room, and red, red blood splatters across the carpet.  Ivanovich’s body collapses at the foot of the throne, pitiful and mortal and defeated.

Viktor stares for a long moment.  His mother smiles down at him from above.

“Farewell, traitor,” he finally answers, his voice very quiet in the jarring silence, and turns away to go find his love.

* * *

 

Tired or not, a king must keep up appearances, so Viktor keeps his head high as he crosses the courtyards again.  It hasn’t been long—his entire chase and confrontation with Ivanovich took maybe twenty minutes, at the most, though it feels like an eternity has passed—and he can still hear the scattered sounds of fighting from down below.

A pillar of ice lifts him above the arena entrance, letting him step down into the top of the stands, and he scrutinizes the ground below, looking for—

Yuuri!

With a jolt, Viktor realizes he’s standing over Sergei, holding his knife out to keep the damn traitor down.  He’s about to leap down with more ice, sliding all the way to the sands, when Yuuri lowers the blade and turns aside, and…

Sergei grabs his fallen sword. 

Time slows down as a horrified scream tears itself from Viktor’s throat.  He throws himself over the bannister and lets the ice form beneath his feet, carrying him down, down, down, not fast enough.

_“NO!”_

As if in slow motion, the tip of the sword gets closer and closer to Yuuri’s back, about to pierce straight through him.  Viktor watches, heart pounding as denial roars sickeningly in his ears, and tries to throw his arm out, tries to fling a wall of ice to protect his love, his love his heart his Yuuri oh god oh _no_ —

The shadows move.

There’s a figure wielding a knife, made of complete darkness, and Sergei’s sword gets caught on it with a metallic _clang_ that Viktor can feel in his bones, even from so far away.  The tip of the sword goes into the back of Yuuri’s shoulder, and he falls to his knees with a cry; the dark figure moves, and the shadows move with it faster than the eye can see, and suddenly Sergei is falling back as well, the arm holding the sword no longer attached to his body.

The knife.  Phichit’s spell—the conjuration of a shade of Phichit himself.  Viktor could sob from relief, seeing it.

The shadowy figure vanishes, and both Phichit and Viktor arrive at the scene at about the same time.

Viktor scoops Yuuri into his arms, his throat closed with fear and horror.  “Yuuri, oh god, oh, Yuuri—”

“Vitya,” Yuuri gasps, slumping against him.  “Fuck.  I’m okay, I’m—ow.”

Frantically, Viktor smooths his hair from his forehead and kisses the top of his head.  “You’ll be fine, you’ll be fine, you’ll be _fine._ ”  He has to get to the healers—oh, for crying out loud, where is Prince Altin when you need him?  Yuuri, oh god, Yuuri’s blood is seeping through his shirt and it’s so warm against his skin, oh _god…_

“Get him out of the arena,” Phichit commands, kneeling next to Sergei with distaste on his face as he wraps a tight, tight bandage around the stump of his arm.  Sergei whimpers as he tugs it tight, not particularly compassionate about his work, and despite himself, Viktor winces.  There’s blood everywhere, and the ice around his feet is tinged with pink.  It’s more than a little disquieting.  “Leki says Altin and the others are by the main exit with the media crew.”

Viktor nods tersely.  “Thank you,” he manages, voice a little hoarse, still reeling from the shock.  He pointedly avoids looking at the severed arm, limp but clutching the sword.  “Your spell saved him a second time.  Thank you.”

Phichit nods.  “That’s the point.”

“I’m okay,” Yuuri manages, still pressing close to Viktor as if he’s hoping their contact will ease his pain.  Viktor’s heart lurches in his chest, still pounding from the horror of seeing that sword stabbing forward, and he carefully gathers Yuuri into his arms, picking him up as carefully as he can.  “I’m okay, it just—it’s, I don’t think it’s deep, I, I…”

“Shh, love,” Viktor murmurs, standing with Yuuri cradled against his chest.  Ice spreads from his feet over the ground in front of him, and ice coats his boots, forming twin blades on the bottom of their soles.  Skating is faster than running, and will jostle Yuuri less.  “Shh.  Don’t push yourself.”

He takes off, creating ice in front of him as he goes, and Yuuri lets out a shaky breath in his arms.  He’s still bleeding, his blood sickeningly warm as it runs down Viktor’s arm.

When he bursts through the main gate, ice still giving him a direct path, he doesn’t have to search hard to find Yuri, Prince Altin, Mila, and Rika, who lets out a horrified gasp as soon as she spots the two of them.  Viktor pays her, and the media gathered around the four of them, no mind.

“Prince Altin!”  He hurries across the remaining distance between them, slowing to a stop just in front of Altin, and glares imperiously at all the cameras.  “Back!  Give us space!”

While they hasten to obey, for the most part, Prince Altin takes one look at Yuuri in his arms and immediately pulls an energy crystal from the pocket of his coat.  “What happened?”

“I’m okay, I just got a little bit stabbed,” Yuuri manages, wincing as Viktor produces an icy bench and gently places him down on it.  Viktor’s heart swells as Yuuri immediately grabs his hand and squeezes it, tight.  “That’s _cold._ ”

“What the fuck—Katsudon!”  Yuri nearly shoves Prince Altin aside before realizing he has to take care of Yuuri, hovering frantically behind him instead.  Mila appears over his other shoulder, and Yuuri looks at the three of them, wide-eyed.

“Don’t crowd him,” Viktor murmurs.  He helps unbutton the bloodied undershirt, whipping around to glare at the cameras if they even _think_ about showing this moment, and on second thought puts up a wall of ice around them all.  His magic is starting to wear out from overuse, but taking care of Yuuri is more than worth exhausting himself.

Yuuri shivers in the sudden quiet as Viktor goes back to unbuttoning the undershirt and carefully removes it, leaving Prince Altin to handle his love’s back.  “Your hands are cold.”

“You got stabbed?!” Yuri shrieks again, hovering even more fretfully.  “Who the fuck—”

“Sergei,” Viktor says flatly.  Yuuri rubs the base of his thumb, and Viktor leans down to kiss his forehead.  Yuuri leans against him as Prince Altin passes him the energy crystal and begins to work his healing spell.

“Is he… does that mean…  Is it all over?” Mila asks, her eyes wide. 

A nod.  “Petrov has been subdued, Sergei is wounded and also has been subdued, and Ivanovich is dead.”  Viktor wants to hold Yuuri.  He wants to hold him tight and kiss his hair and curl up around him and just … and just _be,_ for a little while.  This is exhausting.  By the way Yuuri is leaning against him, head tucked against his stomach, he can tell Yuuri feels similarly, and his desire to scoop him up and flee to someplace private intensifies.

“So it _is_ over,” Yuri says, his voice suddenly soft.  “It’s… done.”

Mila suddenly lets out a whoop and sweeps him up in a fierce hug, and Viktor smiles as his little cousin clings to her just as ferociously.  “We made it, Yura!” she crows, swaying from foot to foot in an excited, clingy dance.  “We made it!” 

Seeing them excited and happy feels a little odd.  He thinks he ought to feel it too, but instead, he’s just weary to the bone.  He wants to hold Yuuri, wants to tuck his face into the crook of his neck and close his eyes for several hours.  It’s over, and he’s glad that they can celebrate, but as for him…

Prince Altin finishes with the spell and pulls away, pocketing the crystal again, and Viktor shrugs out of his jacket, draping it around Yuuri’s shoulders and buttoning it for him to replace his ruined shirt.  “It’ll be sore for a little while, and I wouldn’t suggest too much movement for a day or two,” he reports, “but you’re healed, Prince Katsuki.”

“Thank you,” Yuuri says, turning back around.  He stands and hugs Prince Altin gratefully, smiling.  “Thank you so much for _everything_ , Prince Altin—”

“Just call me Otabek,” Prince Altin says, shrugging, “and you’re welcome.  It was the right thing to do.”

“Otabek,” Yuuri repeats, and hugs him again.  Then he turns to Mila and Yuri and wordlessly pulls them both into a hug, too, and Viktor wraps his arms around the three of them, closing his eyes as he rests his cheek against Yuuri’s temple.  He desperately craves this, wants to sink into this embrace for a few hours to recharge, but…

Not yet.

Once they pull apart, smiles fading, Viktor lets the ice wall melt away, then turns to the reporters.  But to his surprise, before he can make a statement, Yuri steps forward.

“Lady Babicheva, Prince Altin, and I have all already made our statements and explanations as to what’s been happening today,” he says.  “And as you can see, Prince Katsuki was injured.  We’re all going to take some time to recover before releasing further statements on today’s events.  Thank you all for reporting what we had to say.”

Viktor raises an eyebrow, impressed, and nods his approval when a few glances turn to him.  Little Yura has grown up, indeed.

“Come,” he says, wrapping one arm around Yuuri’s waist and the other about Yuri’s shoulders.  “Let’s go home.”

* * *

 

That evening, Yuuri finds himself curled up in bed, Viktor curled up with him, both of them quiet but neither asleep.  His hand scrunches softly through Viktor’s hair, and Viktor presses the occasional soft kiss to his collarbone, but other than that, they’re still.  It’s good.  It’s relaxing.  They both need this.

Makkachin is still at Uncle Kolya’s estate, so for now, it’s just the two of them in Viktor’s enormous bed.  Yuuri closes his eyes.

It’s over, finally.  There’s no more coup, no more blackmail, no more…

Well, there’s still so much cleanup they have to do, and not just in the physical sense.  Yuuri aches with exhaustion just thinking about how they’re going to have to go through all the castle staff and find out who was complicit in the guards’ treason, who was blackmailed and who was helping out of their own volition… and that’s not even mentioning court itself.

“Sweetheart,” Viktor murmurs, his voice husky from his own exhaustion.

Yuuri presses a little closer to him.  “Mmm?”

“You’re thinking about stressful things, aren’t you?”

Yuuri blinks, surprised.  “…How did you know?”

Viktor lets out a breathy chuckle and kisses his forehead again, soft and lingering.  “You tensed up a little, sunshine.  Relax.  We’ll worry about it later.”

Yuuri sighs.  “I know.”

He tucks his face into Viktor’s hair and breathes in, pulls him closer as Viktor buries his face in his neck, and offers a little empathic kiss, a touch of affection.  Viktor responds by pulling the blankets up (Yuuri is more than grateful, because today was _cold_ ) and giving him a squeeze.  “My Yuuri…”

Yuuri sighs, again, and caresses the nape of Viktor’s neck, stroking his fingers idly through the hair at the base of his head.  He’s still thinking about earlier, too.  Today was a lot, tomorrow will be a lot, and there’s almost no end in sight.  It’s so tiring to think about, but he can’t seem to turn his mind off even though his body aches for rest. 

And there’s a reason for that, too.  He fought today, with both magic and blade, and he… he almost _died_ today.  The feeling of that sword shoving into his back… god, he shudders just thinking about it, and as if instinctively aware of what’s on his mind, Viktor strokes his shoulders to try and offer comfort.

Sergei tried to kill him.  Sergei Stepanychev.

He licks his lips a little nervously, gives Viktor a squeeze, and asks, “Can I mention one thing?”

“Of course,” Viktor says immediately.  He stays where he is, curled into Yuuri like a limp, affectionate noodle of a man (the thought makes Yuuri smile), but there’s attentiveness in his mind, and Yuuri sends him a little pulse of gratitude.

“I… learned Sergei’s family name,” he says softly, tucking his face into Viktor’s hair.  “One of the soldiers called him Lord Stepanychev.  Do you… does that name ring any bells?”

Viktor is quiet and thoughtful for a few long moments, his arm around Yuuri’s waist caressing large, soothing circles into his back.  Yuuri closes his eyes and takes another steady breath to remind himself that they made it, that things are getting better, and that they’re okay.  Viktor’s hair smells like the rose shampoo Yuuri washed it with half an hour ago, when they showered together before getting in bed.  It smells good.

“Stepanychev,” Viktor finally says, rolling the name slowly over his tongue.  There’s a tinge of sadness in his thoughts, the specific flavor of it that only comes up when he thinks of his mother, and Yuuri holds him tighter.  “Yes.  He isn’t a lord, then.”

“Who are the Stepanychevs?” Yuuri asks, keeping his voice quiet to mirror Viktor’s.

Viktor heaves a deep sigh that Yuuri can feel in his chest.  “They were a family of middle-ranked nobles in my grandfather’s court,” he answers, nuzzling Yuuri’s neck and pressing a soft, soft kiss just below his jaw.  Yuuri lets out a tiny little sigh, and Viktor kisses his neck again.  “The—god, I love you—the head of their family was caught conspiring against the crown, and they were stripped of their rank and place in court two weeks before my grandfather passed away and my mother took the Throne.”

“Oh,” Yuuri says, and leaves it there, because if the way Viktor is lavishing kisses from his neck to his ear to his mouth are any indication, he doesn’t want to talk any further.

They kiss slowly for a minute or two, then fall back into a comfortable silence.  Yuuri starts to play with Viktor’s hair again, running his fingers through it and stroking it away from his face even though it keeps falling back down, and Viktor smiles, snuggling closer.  He just likes being able to touch his fiancé—his _fiancé_ —and Viktor likes it, too.

He dozes off after a little while, mostly just aware of Viktor and warmth and little else.  It was a long day, and he’s exhausted; both of them are.  Viktor might already be asleep, for all he knows.  They need their rest before the trials and all the cleanup.

In the morning, sunlight streams through the windows whose curtains they forgot to close last night, and Yuuri wakes to Viktor gently calling his name.

“Yuuri,” he croons.  “Wake up, darling, it’s morning!”

Morning is fake and a lie.  “Mmmnergh,” Yuuri mumbles, and buries his face in Viktor’s chest.  Viktor laughs and ruffles his hair playfully, and Yuuri grabs his arm and wraps it around himself.  He’s still sleepy.

“Alright, sunflower.”  Viktor nuzzles his hair.  Fondness blooms in Yuuri’s heart like the sunflower Viktor just called him, and he sighs, squeezing tight.  “That’s fair, you’re right.  We can stay here and cuddle a bit.”

“Mhmm,” Yuuri hums, nuzzling him back.  He falls back asleep at some point, snuggling close to Viktor and feeling incredibly safe, and warm, and loved.  Viktor feels like the sun, radiating warmth and comfort, and he’s golden too, and Yuuri drifts off to peaceful, gentle dreams in his arms.

When they finally get out of bed and start to get ready for the day, Yuuri decides he needs several kisses before he can even _entertain_ the idea of getting dressed.  Duke Plisetsky sent his things over from the Plisetsky Estate, but that doesn’t mean he _wants_ to look regal this early in the morning, so instead he drapes himself across Viktor’s lap and pouts until Viktor, laughing, nuzzles his cheeks and tickles him into wakefulness.

“Stop!  Vitya!”  He giggles helplessly, flailing in Viktor’s lap, and Viktor mercifully does, squeezing him close and grinning unrepentantly.  It’s strange, as if the weight of yesterday (forget the weight of _today)_ hasn’t quite settled on either of their shoulders yet.  He pouts at his fiancé, then leans in for a kiss that starts out soft and sweet but deepens, Viktor’s lips soft and heavenly as Yuuri soundly kisses him.  They break apart for just a moment before Yuuri pulls him in again, needing to feel the press of his mouth on his, and Viktor breathes his name reverently into his lips.

“I love you,” he murmurs when that kiss ends, several seconds later, and Yuuri presses their foreheads together, closing his eyes.

“I love you too, Vitya.”

“Enough to get dressed yet?”  Viktor teasingly pecks the corner of his mouth, his fingers ghosting warningly over Yuuri’s sides, and Yuuri pouts again.

“We deserve a day off,” he sighs, slumping against Viktor’s chest and wrapping his arms around his neck, cradling his head.  “It’s not fair.”

“I know,” Viktor sighs back, turning his head to kiss the inside of Yuuri’s wrist.  “I know, darling.  But we have to do what we have to do.”

Yuuri sighs deeply again, nuzzles Viktor’s temple, and finally slides from Viktor’s lap with great reluctance to pull some ceremonial clothes out of his suitcase and spread them on the bed.  Perhaps he should have hung them up yesterday, but honestly?  He was far too exhausted for that.

He pulls on the dark blue pants and drapes his pajama pants over the back of a chair for now, then slips off his shirt and reaches for the undershirt of today’s set.  It’s silky white and sheer, embroidered with silver patterns around the collar and cuffs, and he’s halfway through buttoning it up when arms slide around his waist.

“Hey, you,” Viktor murmurs, tugging him back against his chest.  Yuuri abandons the buttons and leans into him, closing his eyes and tipping his head back against his shoulder.  Viktor lays his cheek against his hair and hums softly, holding him close, and they stand together like that for several seconds. 

But Yuuri can feel a little hesitation in Viktor’s mind, a little hiccup of sadness of some sort, and so he waits.

Finally, Viktor’s words come.  “…I was so scared yesterday,” he admits, his voice low and a little rough.  “When he… when that bastard tried to kill you.  I thought I was going to lose you after all, after everything we’ve been through, after thinking I’d lost you once…”

Yuuri lets out a shaky breath, reaching up to run his hands through Viktor’s hair.  “Vitya…”

Viktor runs a hand up his chest, finding the unfinished buttons and sliding his finger under the collar of the shirt.  Yuuri shivers slightly at his touch, barely skimming his skin, as Viktor pushes the shirt aside, letting it fall down his shoulder and expose what must be a new scar, though Yuuri can’t see it himself.

Wordlessly, Viktor leans down and kisses it, tender and soft.  He lingers for several seconds, and Yuuri tries not to shiver again at the touch of the cool air against his bare skin.

Viktor withdraws, turns him around, and pulls the shirt back up, straightening the collar before he buttons it the rest of the way.  Yuuri catches his hands, kisses both of his palms, and smiles up at him, as reassuring as he can be.

“I’m okay, Vitya.”

“I know.”  Viktor kisses his forehead, then pulls him close for a gentle hug.  “I know.”

Breakfast is a simple meal they prepare themselves in the kitchenette of Viktor’s suites; there’s so much to be done with palace staff that they don’t want to deal with the potential ordeal of sending for something.  They sit squished together in an armchair, not wanting to separate, and take turns feeding each other pieces of toast and holding up cups of tea.  But halfway through their bread and jam, there’s a knock on the door, and when Viktor opens it, it’s the head chef.

“Begging your pardon for the intrusion, Your Majesty,” she says, bowing deeply, “but your family has always been good to mine, and the folks in the kitchens and I wanted to let you know we’ve stood on your side, this whole time.”

Viktor glances at Yuuri, who nods.  She feels sincere, and beyond the trepidation of talking to the King, he can feel the remnants of her frustration with the soldiers and her fear of the coup.

“Thank you,” Viktor says politely.  “Your loyalty will not be forgotten.”

“Would Your Majesty and Your Highness be wanting any breakfast?” she asks.  “We’d be happy to provide.”

Viktor glances at Yuuri again, and he comes forward to stand at his fiancé’s side, quietly taking his hand.  Viktor intertwines their fingers.  “A breakfast platter for two,” he says, and the chef nods, then bows again.

“It’ll be right up, Your Majesty,” she says, then bows to Yuuri as well.  “Good morning, Your Highness.”

When she’s gone, Viktor slumps into Yuuri’s arms tiredly and blows out a sigh.  “I just remembered,” he says, “that I’m going to need someone to clean those bloodstains out of the throne room carpet.”

Yuuri winces, reaching up to stroke his hair.  He’s not wearing his crown yet, but when they go out, he’ll be wearing it until evening.  It’s going to be a very, very long day.  There’s so much cleanup to do, both literally and figuratively, and that’s not even mentioning what they personally went through yesterday.  Viktor watched a man shoot himself.  That’s…

“Are you okay?”

Viktor makes a non-committal noise and nuzzles Yuuri’s temple, draped against him like an affectionate lump.  Yuuri pats his back.  “Is that a no?”

“I don’t know.”  Viktor’s voice is soft and uncertain and a little afraid.  “I don’t know how I feel about it yet.”

“That’s okay,” Yuuri says, tipping his chin up.  He smiles, too, a real and genuine smile, as he adds, “We have the rest of our lives to sort it out together.”

Wonder dawns over Viktor’s face as if the realization just sank in that they _do_ have the rest of their lives together now, and he brightens, too, beautiful and radiant and overwhelmingly perfect.  Yuuri cups his cheek. 

“The rest of our lives,” Viktor echoes, soft and delighted, and kisses him fervently.

 

* * *

_Several months[later](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=es_3F3TLJS0)…_

“They really don’t have eyes for anyone but each other, do they,” Chris observes, amusement clear in his voice, and Phichit snorts as he twirls his glass of champagne.  Yuuri is out on the dance floor, Viktor in his arms, and they’re both laughing as they twirl around the corner.

“It’s their wedding day,” he points out.  “They’ve earned it for today.”

Chris considers that, thoughtful, then quirks a little grin and asks, “So what you’re saying, then, is that we tease them tomorrow?”

Phichit fires a wink at him.  “There’s a clever man.”

They watch the dance floor together some more, laughing when Yuuri lifts a startled Viktor from the ground and twirls him about, both of them beaming.  The ceremony earlier today was beautiful, grand, dazzling, and _painfully long;_ Phichit doesn’t know how either of them has the energy to be so gleeful in the private afterparty, but then, he’s not the one getting married today.

As the song starts to draw to a close, he turns to Chris.  “Is it past midnight yet?”

Chris gives him a funny look.  “It’s just past eight.”

“Great!”  Phichit claps his hands gleefully.  “It’s past midnight in Xian.  Let’s go make fun of them.”

Chris grins like the cat with the cream and follows Phichit as he walks to the refreshment table, where the happy couple are holding hands and sipping some chilled water.  As they approach, Yuuri stands on his toes to kiss Viktor’s cheek, and Viktor looks so utterly delighted that Phichit finds himself grinning back reflexively.  God, after everything the past year and a half threw at them, they deserve this happiness, so much.

And what kind of day of happiness would be complete without one’s best friends being ridiculous, right?

As if reading his mind, Chris sidles up behind Yuuri and drapes himself over his shoulders, moaning in a very purposefully terrible imitation of Viktor.  “Oh, _Yuuri,_ you’re just so _hot_ when you dance, I can’t _function!_ I’m just so gay!  And you have such beautiful _eyes!_ Even though they can’t see very well without your glasses!  And your hair is so soft!  And you’re so incredibly sweet and handsome and funny!  Why, you’re the dream!  Any man would _kill_ to have you!  Oh, Yuuri!  Take me now!”

“Uh,” Yuuri says, a little bemused.  Phichit snorts.

“Excuse me,” Viktor says, amusement twinkling in his eyes.  “I do not sound like that.”

“Oh, really?”  Chris stands up properly, though he keeps his arm around Yuuri affectionately.  “Then what do you sound like?  Enlighten me.”

Viktor wordlessly passes his water to Phichit, clears his throat, then loops his arms around Yuuri’s neck and leans in to kiss his cheeks.  “Yuuuuuuri,” he sighs.  “You’re so beautiful, my _darling,_ have I ever told you?”

“You may have mentioned it,” Yuuri attempts to deadpan, except that it’s hardly effective when he has two men who are both taller than him hanging off his shoulders and his face is flushed pink.  “Once or twice.”

Viktor kisses his cheek again.  “You’re so loving and kind and strong, my sunshine, the light of my life, the most beautiful man alive, the kindest, the sweetest, the _best_ —”

“Hey, I hate to break it to you,” Phichit says, taking a sip of Viktor’s water, “but Chris pretty much had you nailed.”

Viktor gives him a playfully offended look as he and Chris straighten, and Yuuri looks relieved.  “He wasn’t anywhere near sappy enough.  My Yuuri deserves only the best!”

Yuuri lets out a little giggle at that, reaching up to grab Viktor’s tie.  Phichit gets a great look at the shocked look on Yuuri’s new husband’s face when he gets tugged into a kiss, and both he and Chris whistle, as obnoxious best friends are supposed to do.  Seriously, it’s in the contract somewhere.  Probably.

“I do have the best,” Yuuri says, patting a slightly-dazed-looking Viktor on the head.  “Right here.”

“Where’s Prince Plisetsky?” Phichit asks suddenly, looking around.  “I don’t hear anyone complaining at how tooth-rottingly sweet you two are being.”

Yuuri laughs.  “He’s around here somewhere, pretending he’s not having a good time, probably.”

Viktor smiles warmly, wrapping his arm around Yuuri’s waist and tugging him close.  “Actually, did you know he got us a gift?”

“Did he really?” asks Phichit, who is not surprised in the slightest.  “Who would’ve thought!”

Yuuri laughs again.  “He threw it at us and said something about us taking long enough to get married.  I’m just hoping it wasn’t delicate.”

“He wouldn’t have thrown it if it was,” Chris says, reasonably enough, except that both Yuuri and Viktor exchange skeptical looks and then just shrug.

“Hopefully,” Viktor says wryly.

“Hopefully,” Yuuri echoes, shaking his head.  He leans against Viktor, head finding his shoulder easily, and sighs.  “Do you guys want to sit down?  I don’t know about you, but I’m a little tired.”

“Ah, of course!  I thought you’d never ask!”  Chris steps aside to make room for them all to walk, and Viktor (of course) sweeps Yuuri off his feet into his arms.

“My poor _husband_ is tired!” he exclaims, while Yuuri giggles helplessly, glee written plain as day across his face.  Phichit snaps a photo or seven as Viktor carries him over to the nearest table, where he sets him down and takes the chair next to him, and Phichit and Chris seat themselves too.  “I have to take care of him, I just vowed I would forever.”

“Forever,” Yuuri echoes, eyes wide and shiny, and then he looks at Phichit, beaming.  “I just got _married!”_

“Yup!”  Phichit snaps a picture of that face, too, and grins back as he offers a thumbs-up.  “You sure did!  Isn’t that exciting?”

“Chris,” Viktor sighs, looking at Yuuri’s adorable face.  “I’m gay.”

The four of them sit and chat for a little while, resting their tired feet and laughing their way through stories and jokes while other couples whirl around the dance floor.  At one point, Yuuri’s parents go out for a slow waltz together and steal the show, and at another, Princess Crispino and Lady Babicheva pull off some stunning moves in a tango that has everyone staring.  It’s a good time.

Phichit hauls Yuuri off for a dance later, both of them laughing their way through a bouncy quickstep.  Yuuri can’t stop grinning the entire time.

“I’m really, really happy for you,” Phichit tells him, grinning back.

“Thanks.”  Yuuri sends him a little mental brush of affection and squeezes his hand as they step through a natural weave.  “I couldn’t have gotten here without you, you know?  You helped us both so much.”

“Hey, it’s what friends are for,” Phichit shrugs, and when the song draws to a close, he gives his best friend a really, really tight hug.  “You look so happy.”

“I am,” Yuuri says, glowing.  “I really, really am.”

* * *

“I love my husband,” Viktor announces.

“I know,” Chris says, clearly amused.

“Yeah, it’s not like you’ve said that fifty fucking times already,” Yuri snipes, stuffing another chocolate strawberry into his mouth so he can keep pretending he’s grumpy.  He was smiling earlier, in every picture, until he noticed that Viktor noticed him smiling and petulantly refused to make any face but a scowl for the rest of the night.

“I’ve only said it seventeen times, actually.”  He hasn’t been keeping count, but he’s sure it’s less than fifty, and the idea that he _has_ been keeping count is sure to make Yuri even more petulant.  Really, Yuuri should get back here and stop him before he gets Yuri to throw the bowl of strawberries in his face.

Then again, Yuuri is dancing with his sister right now, so Viktor can’t begrudge him that.

Sure enough, Yuri looks like he might explode.  “ _Seventeen times?_ Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I love my husband,” Viktor sighs dreamily, then winks.  “There.  Eighteen.  Happy now, Yura?”

“You are the literal worst,” Yuri huffs, letting his head thump onto the table.  Makkachin, sitting under it and pretending that he’s not begging scraps from everyone, lays his head in his lap, and Viktor has to stifle a laugh when Yuri starts petting him, still attempting to be disgruntled.

“Well, my _husband_ says I’m the best, so I don’t care what you think of me!  And look, we’re at nineteen now.”

“I have had _enough,_ ” Yuri groans, sitting back up.  He cups his hands around his mouth and yells, _“Katsudon!”_

On the dance floor, Yuuri stops, which makes Princess Mari stop as well.  She says something—most likely _You answer to “Katsudon”?_ —that makes Yuuri duck his head, blushing and laughing, as they both turn to the table where Viktor is sitting, and Viktor waves eagerly.  Yuuri waves back.

“Get over here!” Yuri wails.  “Your damn husband won’t shut up, someone has to control him and you’re the only one halfway decent at it!”

Makkachin huffs and whines, clearly displeased that Yuri has stopped petting him, and Yuri huffs back before he goes back to scratching behind those fluffy, adorable ears.  Nobody can resist Makkachin’s charms, not even grumpy teenagers.

Yuuri laughs, and both Katsuki siblings make their way over.

Well.  One of them is _technically_ a Katsuki-Nikiforov, now, and that thought makes Viktor absolutely giddy with glee.  He’s married to his Yuuri, now and forevermore, and they’ll never have to be apart again.

“Yuuuuri,” he sings, holding out his arms, and Yuuri actually giggles as Viktor pulls him down into his lap.  When Yuuri’s arms wrap around his neck, Viktor catches Chris’s eye and beams, and Chris gives him a thumbs-up.  “Hi!”

“Hi, husband,” Yuuri answers, all adorably excited as he leans in to kiss the tip of Viktor’s nose.

“Hey, Yura!” Viktor calls.  “What’s _his_ tally on calling _me_ ‘husband’, have you been keeping count of that too?”

“I’m going to steal your dog and fucking leave,” Yuri threatens, all bark and no bite as usual.

“Wow,” Viktor remarks casually.  “You’ve come such a long way from threatening to light him on fire whenever you were annoyed with me…”

Yuri flushes and scowls.  “I never said that!”

“Of course not,” Viktor agrees, patronizing and sweet.  Yuuri teasingly ruffles his hair.

“Be nice, Vitya,” he says, a rebuke so mild it’s closer to a coo.  “It’s our _wedding!_   Everyone should be having a good time.”

Giddy from happiness, Viktor just nods his agreement and nuzzles his cheek against Yuuri’s shoulder, hugging him close.  Yuuri laughs and hugs him back, and he closes his eyes in contentment.  After a moment, Yuuri strikes up a conversation with Phichit and Chris, while Mari starts talking to Yuri, and Viktor sits there in the middle of it all, just holding his husband and floating on cloud nine.

“This is confusing,” Mari frowns, looking between Yuuri and Yuri.  “There’s two Yuuris.”

“It’s why he calls me ‘Katsudon’,” Yuuri says with a helpless laugh, still snuggled up in Viktor’s lap.  Viktor pecks his cheek affectionately.  He’s so cute!

“Well, I’m not calling you Katsudon,” Mari says, though she’s clearly amused.  She points at Yuri instead and announces, “You’re Yurio.”

Yuri looks nothing short of criminally offended.  “What?!”

“He came first,” Mari explains, pointing at her little brother, “so you get a new name.  Yurio.”

Oh, boy.  Viktor is never going to let this go, and perhaps the grin on his face makes that crystal-clear, because Yuri takes one look at him and glares.  “I hate you.”

“Well,” Viktor sings, “my _husband_ loves me—look!  We’re at twenty now!—and that’s all I need.”

Yuri does chuck a strawberry at him, which Viktor catches and then holds to Yuuri’s lips.  “I hate you _so much_.”

At some point, Mila appears and hauls Yuri off to dance, and at another point, Otabek takes his seat, talking to the Yang-Leroys of Borealia.  Yuuri leaves and then comes back with drinks for both of them, kissing Viktor’s forehead as he sits down, and Viktor scoots his chair over so he can lean into Yuuri’s side and lay his head on his shoulder.

Yuuri pets his hair with a low chuckle.  “Tired?”

“Just wanna be close to you,” Viktor answers honestly.  The huge ceremony earlier today was a little tiring; although the pomp and circumstance and glamor were delightful, he knows his favorite part is definitely this small, private celebration, just among family and friends.  He can let some of his walls down here, can drape himself over Yuuri as much as he wants and can tease Yura and joke with Chris and just laugh.  He can truly enjoy himself.

“You’re sweet,” Yuuri informs him, turning his head to press a kiss into his hair.  “Husband.”

“Husband,” Viktor echoes, charmed.  Yuuri is so _beautiful_ in his wedding regalia, from the formal circlet nestled in his hair to the pale, stunningly-cut robes that fit him so perfectly, all the way down to the dance slippers he’s traded his dress shoes for.  Viktor wants to scoop him up and cover him in sweet kisses until the sun comes up.

Instead of that, he lifts his head from Yuuri’s shoulder and caresses his brand-new husband’s cheek.  “[Dance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eT3kXDSEVIg) with me some more?  Or are you still tired?”

Yuuri’s face lights up.  “No, no, let’s dance!”

They both take another few seconds to finish their drinks, then Viktor stands and gallantly offers his hand to _his husband_ , who takes it eagerly and nearly hauls him to the dance floor.  Yuuri takes the lead this time, and Viktor is glad to follow.  It’s a slow tango, but the dance floor is still hot, and Yuuri loosens the top button of his shirt so innocently that Viktor almost melts into a puddle of goo on the spot.

He is _so lucky._   He’s married to the most beautiful man on the planet.

Yuuri leads him through a basic first, then pulls him through a series of swivels and reverse-swivels that have both of them grinning as Viktor twists about in his arms.  Yuuri guides him back into a basic and kisses his nose again when he steps forward, and Viktor wonders if all the other empaths in the world can feel his delight like a beacon.

“I love you,” he murmurs, leaning in so his lips brush Yuuri’s ear.  Yuuri twirls him around, leaning in and then stepping back, and Viktor steps through his legs, using the inside of his foot to caress the back of Yuuri’s calf.

When the music swells to a close, Yuuri dips him, laughing.  “I love you, too!”

Viktor looks up at him with pure adoration, thinking _I love you_ as hard as he can so that hopefully, Yuuri can feel it in his mind.  He’s so beautiful, dark hair a little mussed from all their dancing and from how many times Viktor has touched or kissed it, and his cheeks flushed from exertion and glowing with happiness.  God, Viktor loves him, he loves him so much…

Yuuri kisses him, right there in the middle of the dance floor, and somewhere off to the side, he hears Chris whistle and clap, which leads to Phichit cheering and clapping too, until suddenly everyone is watching and laughing and cheering.  Before Yuuri can get embarrassed, Viktor loops his arms around him and lifts one leg from the floor, just to add silliness and drama, and then Yuuri pulls him back upright, bashful and beaming.  Viktor kisses his temple and wraps his arm around him fondly.

His smile fades just slightly, tinged with wistful melancholy, as his mother crosses his mind.  How he wishes she was here too, cheering and laughing along with the rest of them.  She would have loved Yuuri so much…

She should have been here.  It’s not fair.  It never will be fair, how much of his life she’s not going to be in.

Yuuri distracts him from those thoughts by gently kissing his cheek, then taking his hand and leading him to the side of the dance floor, where he belatedly realizes Yuuri’s parents are waiting for them.

“We’re not as young as all you partying folks,” King Toshiya says merrily, reaching out to clap Yuuri on the shoulder.  “We’re retiring for the night, so we just wanted to say once again how happy we are for you both!”

Yuuri lets go of his hand to hug both his parents, then smiles up at Viktor, who assumes he’s also stepping back and starts to say “Good night”.  Instead, however, Queen Hiroko pulls him into a tight, tight hug.

“Welcome to the family, Vicchan,” she says, and his eyes widen.

Yuuri’s hand comes to rest knowingly on the small of his back, grounding him as he flounders for a split second before breaking into a wide, wide smile.

“I’m glad to be here,” he says, and he is.

* * *

_One year later..._

Yuuri is reading a book in the private [courtyard](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YXdvDYHGuNE) with all three of their dogs by the time Viktor finally gets out of his meeting with Duke Feltsman, Duchess Baranovskaya, and Mila, who officially has stepped up to get much more involved in the intelligence side of affairs after proposing to Princess Sara last month.  She’s been doing good work, and is more than likely shaping up to be Duchess Baranovskaya’s protégé in the field.

Makkachin is snoozing under the tree where Yuuri is sitting, while the other two are off chasing each other through the flowers, when the door to the passageway finally opens, and the world’s most beautiful man walks through, a brilliant smile lighting up his face as soon as he spots Yuuri.

“Sunflower!”  Viktor hurries across the path, his light cape flowing elegantly behind his shoulders, and drops to his knees on the blanket in front of Yuuri, cupping his cheeks.  “I’m terribly sorry to keep you waiting.  Were you out here for long?”

“Not that long, and the weather’s nice anyway,” Yuuri answers, smiling into his husband’s touch.  He tips his face up expectantly, and Viktor leans down to kiss him, short and sweet.  He suspects it was supposed to be long and sweet, except that Makkachin is awake now, and he ambles over to nudge his way between both of them to demand his fair share of affection.

“Makkachiiiin,” Viktor coos, all too delighted to hug the world’s best poodle, and Yuuri ruffles Makkachin’s ears and boops his nose, cooing over him too.  “Are you a sleepy boy, Makka-Makka-chin-chin?  Have you been sleeping?”

“He took a nice nap over there until you came outside,” Yuuri says, nodding at the tree.  “I think he likes the breeze.”

“What a good boy,” Viktor croons, and Makkachin whuffs softly in agreement.  Satisfied, he wanders back to his spot in the grass, circling around a few times before plopping down and sprawling out with one of his back legs tossed over a root.  Yuuri looks at him and laughs.

“Do you think that’s even comfortable?”

Viktor shrugs.  “Makkachin does as Makkachin pleases, darling.”

“True.”  Yuuri leans forward to tug him down into another kiss, this one uninterrupted.  Viktor kisses him deeply, pulling him closer, and the warmth of his love is so familiar and wonderful that Yuuri can’t help but sigh in contentment.  He loves Viktor’s kisses.  They always feel like coming home.

“How was sparring?” Viktor asks when they break apart.  He nuzzles Yuuri’s nose and wraps an arm around his waist, drawing him close, and Yuuri leans into his side, reaching across his lap to take his other hand and play with his fingers and his wedding ring.  Viktor smiles as he does, a wave of gentle fondness rising up and crashing over him like the warmest of tides.  There’s a gentle breeze caressing their faces, carrying the sweet scent of all the wildflowers around them, and the sunlight feels idyllic.

“It was good,” Yuuri answers, caressing each finger in turn.  “Yura showed me some new sword tricks, and he’s getting better at the basics of knives.”

Two weeks back, Yuri finally caved and admitted he thought Yuuri’s knife and shadow-magic-inspired style of fighting was pretty cool, and further asked him to teach him how to use knives properly.  Yuuri was hard pressed not to giggle at the “pretty fucking cool, okay, I admit it” speech, but happily agreed, further asking Yuri to teach him more about swordplay.

“New sword tricks?” Viktor asks, interest piqued, and Yuuri wrinkles his nose, because while he learned the new move Yuri showed him, he absolutely does not remember its name, at all, whatsoever.

“Um… it was the one that kind of goes a little spinny, and then whoosh.”

Viktor leans his head back and laughs, making Makkachin look over at them with a little questioning head tilt before he deems his nap more important and lies back down again.

“Spinny and swoosh?” Viktor teases, tipping Yuuri’s chin up.  Amusement dances in his eyes and across his mental landscape, and Yuuri rolls his eyes good-naturedly, ducking his head.  “You might need to be a little more specific than that, sunflower—”

“Listen, I don’t have any room left in my head for sword thing names after all the _people_ names I have to keep track of in order to represent Hinomoto at court—”

“And yet you remember the names of all your dance moves just fine?”  Viktor shakes his head.  “I’m wounded, sweetheart, you don’t even want to remember the names of fencing terms even though you love me so dearly…”

“Dance is different,” Yuuri points out, poking his silly husband in the side.  Viktor raises an eyebrow inquisitively, and Yuuri sighs, shaking his head because this really should be obvious by now.  “If I didn’t remember all the dance terms, Minako-sensei would probably appear and kill me on the spot, Vitya.  You know this.”

“Hmm,” Viktor hums, but he doesn’t say that it’s an invalid point, so Yuuri takes it as a win.

Moving on, he leans in and kisses the corner of his mouth and asks, “How was the intelligence briefing?  Anything interesting today?”

“Nothing of particular note, beyond the usual,” Viktor answers, giving him a gentle squeeze.  He lifts their joined hands to press his lips to Yuuri’s knuckles, then adds, “We went through a few more candidates for higher-level military positions, including our elite guard’s lower posts, but haven’t finalized everything yet.  We figured we’d do that when you and Yura were available as well.”

Yuuri rubs his thumb over the wedding ring and hums.  “I see.  Nothing bad came up, though, right?”

“No, no.”  Viktor lets go of his hand to draw him into a hug, pulling him back against his chest and laying his head against his hair for a moment, then sighs.  “Yuuri, I am wearing too many clothes.”

Yuuri considers him, still in all his court regalia from this morning.  Unlike Yuuri, who had a relatively brief meeting with Minami to discuss Hinomotan trade policies with his family over a call and then went sparring with Yuri, poor Viktor has been in meetings since court ended, and has not had time to change out of his cumbersome clothes, let alone shower and get cozy.

“You are,” he agrees.  “Why didn’t you change into something more comfortable before coming out here?”

Viktor pouts, an expression Yuuri knows all too well means that something sappy is about to come out of his mouth, something that will invariably make him melt no matter how much he tries to prepare himself for it.  Of course, he tries to prepare himself anyway.

“I just wanted to be with you as soon as I could,” Viktor says, honest and so sweet and lovable, and of course, Yuuri melts.  He laughs too, of course, but he still turns around in Viktor’s arms to kiss his cheeks and his nose and his mouth and his forehead, smiling all the while.

“You big cheeseball,” he teases, reaching for the clasp of Viktor’s sheer, embroidery-laden cape.  “We can go inside together, get you into clothes that can handle grass stains in case you decide to be rowdy in the garden again, and then come back out for our picnic.  Okay?”

Viktor looks at him like he just hung every last individual star in the sky and then lit the sun aflame, too.  “That sounds wonderful.  Thank you, my Yuuri.  You’re always full of perfect ideas!”

“Silly _,_ ” Yuuri laughs, pulling away to stand up.  Makkachin lifts his head again as Yuuri offers Viktor his hands, and Viktor attempts to haul him back down into his lap, but Yuuri knows him and expected it, so it doesn’t work.  Both of them laugh when Makkachin just sighs and lays his head back down again.

“He’s probably used to us being ridiculous,” Viktor says, grinning ruefully as he goes over and leans down to pet the poor old sleepy dog.  “Good boy, Makka, such a good boy!”

They leave the dogs in the courtyard because they’re going to be right back, and the walk to the King’s suite isn’t particularly far.  Yuuri still remembers those early days of living here, when he and Viktor would steal away to the private courtyard to spar and steal some time together, to pick flowers or sit down and kiss each other slowly, shyly, like they were still getting to know the outlines of each other’s bodies and thoughts.

Now, he knows his husband inside and out, like the back of his hand, if not better, and the thought makes him so ridiculously happy that he just has to loop his arm around Viktor’s waist as they walk, sending him a little burst of affection and warmth.  Viktor chuckles fondly as he pushes open the door to their rooms.

“My Yuuri is so loving,” he murmurs, pulling Yuuri close to kiss him fervently.  Yuuri goes soft and pliant in his arms, looping his arms around Viktor’s neck and kissing him back just as passionately.  Viktor is so beautiful, and his court regalia only serves to highlight how ethereal he can be, like a prince directly out of the pages of a fairytale.  God, sometimes just remembering he’s married to this man makes Yuuri a little weak in the knees.

“Your Yuuri likes loving you,” he answers, then returns to the business of removing the cape.  The richly embroidered suit jacket comes next, and he takes it over to the closet before coming back with a nice, soft, cream-colored button-up and offering it to Viktor instead of the stiffer one he’s wearing.

Viktor removes his crown and sets it gently on the cushion where he keeps it at night, lingering for just a moment.  He often still thinks of it as his mother’s crown, even now, over a year into his own reign.  Yuuri comes up behind him and wraps his arms around his waist, just holding him, and then kisses his bare shoulder.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Viktor answers.  He doesn’t feel _sad,_ per se, but he does feel a little thoughtful, perhaps a little more melancholy than before.

“Are you okay?” Yuuri asks, kissing his shoulder again.  “We don’t have to have a picnic if you don’t feel up to it, Vitya.”

“No, no.”  Viktor shakes his head and turns around in his arms, smiling softly.  He knows better than to fake a smile at Yuuri by now, but this isn’t fake; it’s just small.  Yuuri can accept that.  “I’m alright, sunflower.  I was just thinking for a moment.  I still very much want to have our picnic!  It’s been so rainy lately, I was wondering if we’d ever be able to again!”

Yuuri smiles back, tacitly acknowledging that they’re going back to being silly and lighthearted, and then playfully boops his husband’s nose.  “If nothing else, we could’ve had a picnic in the greenhouse at the botanical gardens.”

Viktor wrinkles his nose.  “That wouldn’t be the same.”

Once Viktor is in comfortable garden clothes, they make their way back through the secret passage hand-in-hand.  The picnic blanket is still where Yuuri left it, complete with his book next to Makkachin, but now all three dogs are curled up under the tree, snoozing.  Yuuri feels his heart warm at the sight.

While Viktor goes to the picnic basket and starts to get the food out, Yuuri plops down near the dogs, petting all three of them and laughing softly when they all swarm him for affection, then starts to pick flowers, weaving them together into a chain with a motion as familiar as breathing.

Viktor walks over and drops a kiss to the top of his head, dropping to a crouch in front of him.  “Not eating yet, darling?”

“Just a moment,” Yuuri answers, adding another flower.  Viktor watches him work with a fond smile for several seconds, then goes back to the picnic blanket, toeing out of his shoes and sitting down to pour two glasses of chilled juice.  Yuuri smiles back at him, nudging another tiny burst of love in his direction, and keeps twining flowers together.

When the crown is finished, he hops up, pads across the grass in his bare feet, and deposits it on Viktor’s head.  Viktor looks up in surprise, nearly dropping it, but quickly catches it and laughs.

“For me?”

“For you,” Yuuri confirms, sitting down and accepting the juice that Viktor offers him.  “Thank you, Vitya.”

“I am honored,” Viktor says, taking Yuuri’s hand and kissing his palm.  “My talented husband makes a crown just for me.”

“Yes,” Yuuri laughs, rubbing his thumb over Viktor’s knuckles.  He loves this man, loves his fun-loving silly side and his smiles and his sweetness and everything else, too.  “A crown for the king of my heart.”

Viktor jabs a finger at him triumphantly.  “Aha!  Who’s the sap _now?”_

Yuuri innocently blinks, then looks at him through his lashes as he sips his juice.  “You, right?”

Viktor wags his finger and shakes his head, though this time he’s careful not to dislodge the flower crown.  “You’re a lucky man, Yuuri Katsuki-Nikiforov.  It’s good for you that you’re holding juice, or else I’d have to take matters of justice into my own hands.”  He wiggles his fingers threateningly, and Yuuri scoots a little further away.

“I’m going to call my parents and say that my husband is using his knowledge of me to unfair advantages,” he complains, because Viktor is unrepentant about tickling him sometimes, and sure, he might be unrepentant about tickling Viktor back, but that’s clearly not the issue here.  Clearly.

“Your parents love your husband,” Viktor points out.

“That’s true.”  Yuuri taps a finger to his chin thoughtfully.  “That might throw a wrench into my plans.  Do you think I could convince my husband not to be unfair?”

“Your husband is always open to any convincing you want to do,” Viktor says, winking, and he’s just so perfect, sitting there in the dappled sunlight with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to the elbows and a flower crown just ever so slightly off-balance across his forehead, that Yuuri _has_ to put his juice aside and lean over to kiss him, several times.

“I love you,” he says easily, reaching for a sandwich once he’s done, and Viktor looks at him with a breathtakingly beautiful blush smeared across his perfect cheeks.

“I love you too,” he sighs.  “Consider your husband completely and utterly convinced.”

Yuuri winks.  “I know.”

Later, he lays on the blanket, head in Viktor’s lap, as they watch the clouds sail by.  Viktor pets his hair, Yuuri idly rubs his knee, and they sit together, quietly enjoying each other’s company.  Viktor is first to break the silence.

“If we lived in a fairy tale,” he says thoughtfully, “do you think we would have reached the end of our story yet?”

Yuuri shakes his head, reaching up to touch his cheek.  “How could we?  With you, every day is a new adventure.”

Viktor kisses the inside of his wrist and smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End.
> 
> 1\. oh my god i cannot believe this is actually over, a HUGE shoutout and thank-you to everyone here, whether you've been with me from the beginning, or you joined later, or if you're reading this after it's complete and you just binged your way through everything. i am so happy and so excited and GOSH, this has been the last year of my life, thank you all for making it a good experience ;u;
> 
> 2\. SPECIAL THANKS TO: allison, for helping me make it through the last chapter and betaing the action scenes for me <3 i couldn't have done this without you!! and pari, my beautiful noodle gf, without whose motivation and willingness to listen to me ramble about aus and plot i quite possibly would not have written this to begin with!! and fae, for helping me iron out plot details ages ago!! and spamty for unceasing enthusiasm and also listening to me ramble!! and riki, for arts and general screaming to keep my inspiration going. <3 
> 
> 3\. ANOTHER HUGE THANKS TO THE TRFL DISCORD GROUP!!! all of you have been unwaveringly supportive in my writing endeavors and i love you!!! if anyone is interested in joining the group, you can do so [here](https://discord.gg/dB9BvgC) if you'd like!!!
> 
> 4\. a couple of goodies (and please if i miss any, let me know): [a lovely edit](http://adreamingsongbird.tumblr.com/post/169262868425/adjit-but-please-tell-me-what-happened-to-my) by allison and [this art](http://adreamingsongbird.tumblr.com/post/169192844910/rikichie-this-art-accompanies-this-fic-rimi) of the boys in the pining phase from ages ago by riki!!!
> 
> 5\. TRFL SIDE STORIES IS NOW UP AND RUNNING!!!! you can find it [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13232247) or by using the link below, since trfl is now in a series!!!
> 
> 6\. if you just binged this entire story, please take a break, drink some water, eat something, get some sleep?
> 
> ~~next time:~~ _and they lived happily ever after._


End file.
